Dune Fox

DUNE FOX

High dunes, reed-spiked, hush surf’s roar.

Wind whipped, we stop, dismount,

leave bikes by the Fietspad.  She is there,

small, sharp-eared, rust brown. Eyes meet;

Hers dark pools. She pauses, pleads, pads to where

We rustle for biscuit.  She eats, quick, as if to say

Is it not better so to busk than tear

The guts from a quivering, wide-eyed prey?

She plays an old game. Wolves, wild dogs, gave up

savage freedoms for table scraps, stale meat,

their masters’ whistle and crack of whip.

obsequies of obligation, perfectly met.

Fox in the blowing sand, we also come,

word-tamed to beg a stranger’s crumb.

 The title poem of Colin Speakman's 2011 collection - available on Amazon £3 or order direct from

colinspeakman.tfl@blueyonder.co.uk - state address and invoice will be included (post free)