Coming back from the station. A dead fox in a pool of blood. I stop the car and move the fox into the hedge. The double bend and then our cottage, signal, turn. Stop.
But you are so far away. Speeding to London.
I park the car, walk past the newly planted lavender, unlock the door. I wash my hands, pick up the phone to call you.
I’m thinking of the fox.
One moment living, breathing, running - there.
The next dead, lying in a pool of blood.
The next a poem in my head.