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J O H N S T O N E W R I T E R S G R O U P |
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TWO POEMS by Ian Hunter
FOX FALLEN Race the cars up the hill as the dual carriageway squeezes out of sight and leave the chaotic jockeying for position behind Come over the rise and see the young fox fallen in the middle of the road back bent beyond its limits snapped as life fled leaving only a body and a splash of blood Know that the fox will BADGER BROKEN They are sturdy creatures. Lying still beside the road offering no clue to what killed them. No blood, no innards. They might just be sleeping off the effects of their nocturnal activities. But as the days pass they lose their lustre, their sheen. Become shop soiled. Two lie dead on the same stretch of road and they seem to acknowledge each other in a final trick. Legs pulled up, paws frozen in mid-wave, or a delayed reaction, burning through neurones and nerves and muscles and tendons, trying to ward off whatever claimed them.
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