Under Cover (Poetry)

The houses stare, mean-eyed into the dark
small watery windows throw thin searchlight beams
at trees that fail to flinch
reflect back a feigned innocence — deny
they’ve anything to hide.

A far-off yelp where reynard runs
his frisky robber band —
those shadow-shifting sons of anarchy
few ever see
stealth their inbuilt watchword
sly as the soft-shoed minutes creeping ...

High up in the pines, one patient sentry observes
night’s grainy twitch of borderlands — then
this tawny death-angel launches sudden
                                                into downward flight
picking off some hapless water vole
not quite quick enough to dive
                                        for cover.