Cat prowl

Cat prowl

In the frost crisp they prowl
the growlers and scavengers
for leavings not frozen

though not worth the hot-blood mouthfuls
quivering deep in the frozen
holed in the dark.

Fox digs but dainty cat pads
are not diggers
and the cold bites through fancy fur.

Fox digs and the blood scent spills
twitching cat whiskers with longing
but even hard bread and cheese rind
are better than death.

Nightingale sings

Nightingale sings the sun down,
the moon up and the stars.
He sings through the night time
and the daytime without pause,
while fox and vixen walk the path
through meadow grass, through night wind,
beneath soft rain of song notes,
round, ripe, silver moongaze,
and the scent of early roses
in the dew-dropping air.


For the earthweal challenge.



Out of the depths she has cried, the vixen,
and runs now by rushing waters;
no lying down in the deep dark or bright day,
running, outrunning.

The earth, her earth not ours,
fills with hounds’ teeth
and the shining teeth of the trap.

From morning watch even until night
she runs, red running, finding solace
in the companion, the faithful shadow,
watchful, padding print for print
with her between the winter trees.

She dreams of a day of rest,
eyelids flicker, paws twitch in fitful sleep,
and the perpetual light shines—
on white and shining teeth,

and again she runs,
perpetual motion.

Haibun: Dark morning


They made a convoy this morning in the dim light before the rain, a dozen vans driven by red-face men with big bellies, full of dogs and death. They gathered in the field beyond, and I waited for the surge of excitement of released dogs, the shouts of encouragement. But in the silence before the rain, as the sky darkened, they roared away, taking their guns and their dogs to another site, and relief that the massacre would not be here was tempered by the certitude that somewhere a mother and her cubs would lose their lives in terror.

World full of killing

yet we add to the pain

buds fall unopened.

Flash fiction: A hungry tale

The official publication date for The Spring Dance is tomorrow, when the free download offer starts for Tales from the Northlands, a collection of stories with a Nordic flavour. This short story is in the same vein. If you like it, you will probably enjoy The Spring Dance stories too.


The spring had been late and cold, and hailstorms had knocked the buds from the fruit trees. The summer sun was pale and fitful, and the few buds that had swollen stayed small and green. Autumn came early with gales and floods, and the crops, the grains, the fruits and the small rodents were washed away.

Winter was biting, and a skinny roe deer wandered disconsolately through the thinning cover of an oak wood. She chewed a trailing strand of ivy, pulled at a stump of bramble, and plodded to the edge of the big field. The field had been mown on the last day of sunshine, and nothing was left in it to tempt her out from the trees. Nothing except a single, bright yellow sunflower that had no business being there, but shone like a beacon against the drab dampness.

The hind took one timid step, then two, then she leapt into the field and the yellow flower. One, then two, then three shots rang out and the hind staggered and fell. With her last strength, she stretched her neck to touch the precious flower colour of sunshine and summer with the tip of her tongue. Then her eyes clouded over and she died.

One, then two, then three huntsmen stepped from the hedge at the top of the field and strode down to inspect their kill. The first prodded the hind with his foot.

“Small,” he said with a frown.

The second jabbed his shotgun into her ribs. “Skinny,” he said.

“Full of ticks,” the third said, turning away.

The huntsmen dragged the dead deer back into the bushes and left her there. Later, when the sun had gone, and the deer was quite cold, a fox nosed her and licked his lips. He was hungry too. He smelled the deer’s death on her and knew who had sent it. Though he settled down to the unexpected meal, his teeth ground in anger. Later still, a badger snuffled by and feasted on the deer. She also smelled the deer’s death and snorted in anger, but the winter was bleak, and food was scarce. A passing barn owl swooped down and wrenched strips of meat from the deer, and the next morning, crows and jays picked at the flesh still on the bones. When all the animals had had their turn, ants picked the bones clean and left them to be covered respectfully by the long grasses and wildflowers when they came back in the spring.

When the cold was over, the year turned sweet and mild. Later, summer rolled around, hotter and hotter. The stream ran dry, and the shade buzzed with biting insects. Lying panting in a thicket of brambles, the fox smelled a bad smell from the cluster of houses where the huntsmen lived. The air was hot and full of grass stalks, prickly seeds and the tiny insects that whined and hummed and stung and irritated. But as well as the dry seeds and the irritating insects, the air had a bitter, smoky taste that boded no good.

With his mate and his cubs, the fox ran across the big, ploughed field and turned on the brow of the hill to watch. In a little while, he was joined by the badger and her family, a flock of crows, a band of noisy jays and a couple of sleepy owls. They perched or sat or lay on the hilltop and watched, as sparks from the barbecue set light to the grass dry as tinder, ate up the bone-dry gardens, gorged on the wormy wooden floors of the barn, and leapt, a roaring beast, to feast on the window shutters, the carpets and the wooden staircases of the cottages.

People shouted and screamed and milled about with buckets of water, or fled to their cars and the road. In the distance, the foxes, the badgers and the jays heard the belling of a monstrous mechanical hound, surely called up by the men to devour the flames. But the fire merely laughed and danced its wild dance.

“Karma,” said the fox. The others nodded in agreement.

Night wind and the fox



In the dawn damp

at the forest’s edge,

a red shadow glides.

Bird hush breaks

at sunrise

bright as the brush

of a sleeping fox.



and mist blows in from the sea

coating my lips in salt

and the electric tang

of unseen vastness.


In the night,

a cry,

a bark wilder than any dog’s,

and the sterile concrete of the streets

shivers at the sound.


There is a window in the wind

that blows across the river.

Look carefully and you will see

wild swans flying home.

FFfAW: The fox’s tale

I saw this photo prompt on Lynn Love’s blog and a story immediately sprang to mind. If you too feel inspired, here’s the link to the Flash Fiction for Aspiring Writers prompt.

The photo is courtesy of Tim Livingston (the Forester Artist)


A long time it’s been here, nights and nights and more nights. Still the smell hangs in the air like death. Mice come here now and birds. Mice and birds don’t know much, don’t smell death. Not like us. Us knows.

Men comed here over and over in the thing, comed stomping with death in their hands. Us would run and hide. Birds didn’t. Birds is stupid, don’t know to hide. Us sawed what happened to birds. Then one time, earth opened and breathed, enough. Us heard. Men didn’t. Earth opened and men’s thing tumbled inside. They left it there, caught in earth’s jaws. Us waited and waited nights and nights and more nights. But the thing was dead.

Mice come here now and birds. Mice and birds don’t remember anything. Us remembers. Us stays away. Except when us is hungry and us remembers scampering stupid mice. Quick snap snap snap. Blood and tiny squeals. Then us runs away back to the safe earth.

A long time it’s been here. Still it smells of death.


You take me through the starry night

A cascade poem for the dVerse open night, because I like cascade poems.


You take me through the starry night,

To where the wind sighs in the sedge,

Bedecked in shadows like the fox.


When the wind blows through the trees,

And the sky’s bright coping tumbles down,

You take me through the starry night.


I’ll go with you and take your hand,

While stars and lynchpins shoot away,

To where the wind sighs in the sedge.


We share our heartbeats with the drum

Of feet that tread on broken stars,

Bedecked in shadows like the fox.