For Ted Hughes (if he was still around and could give two hoots - or even three hoots - about a small poem from an emerging Aussie poet)
A pre-midnight fox
consumed by bone-lust,
padding where memory is lost,
hurls wheezes and wails
at Morton National Park's tides.
Along Lower Gullies Road
all our bored boxed-foxes
tear themselves from stale
fireside mats, chats and pats,
to shriek by frozen front doors.
We refuse to open up outside,
let them join that One Real Dog,
set fern, fence and field aflame,
out-laugh the loon, fang the moon,
scream until ambulances howl.
LJ, May 28 2012