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Creative Work 47
THE FOX
He appeared from the south
As the squirrels were feeding.
He was beautiful, casual.
A creature of breeding.
The world had stood still.
There was no rush, no hurry.
He padded on slowly
No intention to scurry.
“How sad”, I reflected,
how free his domain,
while I was a slave
To my watch and the train.
Past my window he ambled
His magnificence shining.
My heart leapt with joy
My sad mood declining.
In a flash he was gone,
And I - a changed man -
Determined, hopeful,
Catching life as I can.
I had oft seen these creatures,
From afar, or not living,
But here was magnificence,
Delight freely given.
Yet. A lone incident?
A unique apparition?
His appearances were frequent.
His exploits a tradition.
The fox of St Andrews,
Was beautiful. Appealing.
A vital ingredient
Of my emotional healing.
St. Andrews hospital
A spiritual beacon.
A special sanctuary,
If solace I’m seeking.
A citadel. Fortress.
Flag of hope uncurled.
To protect me and shield me
From the woes of the world.
Unlike my great fox
I must face life, in fact.
But confident, fortified
Defences intact.
As he roams St Andrews
My fox is so safe
As protected as I am.
- On the sea, not a wave.
Outside I can venture,
Armed for the fray.
Timetables. Trains. Watches.
Frustrations. Delay.
The cold, dark, wet world.
Now a simple sojourn
Is warm, light and welcoming.
As it waits my return.
But stay here, my friend.
Do not venture outside,
Where the hounds and the hellions
Will track down your hide.
Keep us all entertained
Bring a sigh, smile or tear.
Well up joy, quiet pride
Chase away every fear.
I, too, had a hound.
I, too, had a hellion.
They lived only until
my glorious rebellion.
They were omnipotent,
invincible, the Gods of the river.
But St Andrews had armed me
- They’re now gone. Forever.
Should ever I falter
overwhelmed with concern.
The Knights of St Andrews
await my return.
With lances a-gleaming
and sharp swords a-rattle
They would hold me, enfold me
and join in the battle.
An invincible army
it would soon turn the tide.
Even Beelzebub’s bastions would
Fall in it’s stride.
And overcome darkness
perdition and sin
and the army of horrors
that are screaming within.
But the Knights of St Andrews,
though impatience they deign,
Will await through eternity,
but, always, in vain.
For a new dawn has broken
I am, again, whole.
My heart quietly singing.
My spirit. My soul.
The warmth of humanity
seeped into my mind.
Now depression, despair,
are left far behind.
The darkness has long gone,
with the cancerous pox.
I am wholesome and ready,
with the craft of the fox.
Eric Barty
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