That was a Hughes’ fox slowly
Entering the hole of the head.
Wasn’t hole married to death?

Cunning fox is slow on a snow
And foraging in the dry leaves
Leaves footprints in soft snow.

There are no stars in window.
Sky knows why they are gone.
A poet is certainly left behind.

A poet remembers his dream.
The earth shook a dream flat.
A whole temple sank behind.

That was a new old poet’s fox
Cunning ever in a head’s hole.
Fox burrowed his poem made.

(Remembering Ted Hughes’ poem “The Thought Fox” about poetic inspiration)

Advertisements