Slow fade
In the morning the coat still flashed fox red,
his face still angry at a pose caught and frozen
at the moment of impact, his body silent
witness to sudden drama in the night.
On this country highway such carnage is
not regretted, soon forgotten, not seen
as anything to forgive. I saw some hint
of that realisation in the final facial expression
death left the fox imprinted. It didn't
look like surprise - more an understanding
the game he was obliged to play with his
predator had reached an unexpected end.
At evening, driving home, I noticed the corpse still lay,
the coat in a slow fade under tyre splashed grime,
last traces of life now truly gone, the fur, flesh
and bone, ready to bland back into a copse
from which the fox hesitated to emerge, before he sloped
across the road by night, though did not hesitate enough.