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.
1 comment:
The joys of living in the country eh?
This is kind of related. I met an old art school chum at the Tate once who I hadn't seen for about twenty years. He had completely changed ofcourse and not the slim bohemian in baseball boots I once knew but a chubby middle-aged business man in a suit and tie. He told me about his life as a company manager who made flags and bunting that sold all over the world. He appreciated fine food and wine and reckoned himself to be quite a gastronome. One night driving back from London to his big house in the New Forest he ran over a pheasant and seeing it lifeless in the tail-lights of his BMW he thought what a fine meal it would be and placed it in the boot of his car. Some miles down the road he heard a banging and thrashing noise coming from the rear of his car and pulled over to investigate. When he opended the boot the pheasant which was still alive flew at him but he managed to subdue it with some carefully aimed punches and as it lay there breathing it's last he dispatched it with a small spade he happened to carry for emergencies.
I can't remember if he said it tasted nice or not.
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