Elegy for a Fox
Displayed upon the pub’s stark wall,
a small, now silent fox’s head
casts its final blind and mindless stare
across the bar,
where a careless crowd of rowdy men,
cheerfully ignore the fact,
that its tired and tarnished plaque,
proclaims a small, sad,
act of cruel sport.
Caught in the concerns of greater kills,
it’s no surprise that this,
its last and glass eyed gaze
should fail to amaze, or, move their
proven need to seed the air
with failure on a larger scale.
And why; among them all,
should its panting tongue
be sung a dirgeful song?
When all the wrong we’ve done
to each, and everyone,
can teach us to reserve
our highest curve of grief
for the relief of human death.
Where breath has been extinguished
on more distinguished fields,
than those, where hunted foxes
lose the final chase.
In secret places, where
the bloody brush is smeared
on young and hot flushed cheeks.
which future joys of innocence
shall send a blush of coyness,
that will mask the tainted,
that hides within the tender face
the sublimating carnal race,
and their meager fall from grace.
Our belief that the demise
of one small and scruffy thief
merits no surprise, and prompts
no whys of conscience to disturb
the placid path of easy laughter,
The fox’s death is understood,
against the scale,
which needs the ill of greater deeds
to feed the will to action.
But, after all the tall and
bright-eyed-bushy-tales are told,
we still unfold the tragic fact
that whilst we can accommodate
the common fate of one small
and furry pest, then, crest its
tiny severed head, with deadly pride
beside forgetful fruits for all to see,
we shall not mend the mind
which finds exhilaration
in annihilation of a nation state.
The same force, which seeks
a source of joy from the safety
of the ritual death of one small life,
can plunge the knife into a thousand guts.
Or, stand aside, and watch the tide of blood;
flood from the cuts
which bleed humanity to death.
©James Rainsford 2011
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