Fox (Poetry)

Our beams sliced the steady rain,
swung round a country corner,
picked out a flash of flame
dead centre, a flicker of fur.

Shock made us swerve and stare,
observe the glowing pelt,
his pupils thin as flies
trapped in amber,

sharing echoes with us -
the thud; his dying scream;
a shaft of knowledge
piercing through the dark.