Foxes



A passion fuelled by foxes cannot last.
Vampires moan in sweet unmirrored bliss.
A skater’s joy could make a pond collapse.
Fox-love is a game of hit or miss.

I throw them chicken wings, rags of beef.
Porch lights will ignite when foxes run.
Our garden is a pool of disbelief.
Vermin have their holes in kingdom come.

The synaesthete sees colour in a word;
a tune is bitter almond, orange peel.
A fox’s nose is cleaner than a sword;
our kiss, like burning bibles on a wheel.

Hail, as foxes gnaw their daily bread,
the winter pavement serving as a dish.
We snuffle out our boundaries in bed.
Oh speed me, Christ, another night like this.

____________________________

A.B. Jackson

 

A.B. Jackson was born in Glasgow in 1965 and studied English Literature at the University of Edinburgh. His first book, ‘Fire Stations’, was published by Anvil Press in 2003, and won the Forward Prize for Best First Collection that year. In 2010 he won first prize in the Edwin Morgan International Poetry Competition, and in 2011 Donut Press published a limited edition pamphlet, ‘Apocrypha’, which was the Poetry Book Society’s Pamphlet Choice for Summer 2011. His poems have appeared in the TLS, The Guardian, Poetry Review, The Dark Horse, and Magma. After many years working in libraries and knowledge management he is now studying for a PhD in Creative Writing at Sheffield Hallam University on the subject of polar exploration and contemporary poetry.