Up to 56 (2 of which contain fox poo) 944 to go

I caught a fox doing a poo whilst on a lunch-break walk one day, and it was an amazing colour. I wish I had taken a picture of it.

In the fields, scent trails to 
Intrigue the dog on her morning walk
Are sneaked out by foxes
They leave crafty turds in the grass

Foxes eat berries, the proof 
Will be marvelled at, it will be 
Difficult not to be impressed
By the purple turds by the hedge

Fantastic dreams work the dog’s legs
She is chasing the yipping fox
Across the stream, jumping in
Joyous pursuit, she falls off the sofa

Other dreams go to the beach
Push out in a kayak, paddle 
To an island, light a fire
Cook two mackerel

Deeper in the sea, sharks
Are not known to dream
The current brings them oxygen
It is not time yet to hunt or travel

Dreams animate synapses, 100 million
pulsing cells makes three pounds of
Grey matter, makes pictures of
Ocean, beach-fire, sunset

Several spiders in the bathroom
Corners are busy. Fine webs wobble
Trussed fly husks tucked up neat
Too late for a bedtime story

Cloud re-gathers, partitions 
The sky, the wind-dragons
Break these fences, roam
Bowing branches as they pitch by

The cat waits, she is patient
Concentrated to an essence
Mouse-meat tastes like pork, delicious
Free-range organic mouse-pig

The dog is surprised, falling 
From the sofa. Her basket in sight, she
Chooses the armchair, she
Curls back into jumping, in dreams

First hour of the day rolls over
Into the second, the shadows in
The kitchen jolt, the wind blows
The cat pounces

One sperm makes it, all
The way into the egg, the
Journey is made in stages
The cell begins to divide

Two rows of wine brewing
In glass, on top of the bookcase
To catch rising heat, to harness
The warmth of the living room

Nothing under cat’s paws
But grass, the flavoursome mouse
Dodged into the thicket, the cat
Strolls away, unaffected

Wind swoops the dark beach
Catching sand as it spins
Trailing spray, turning out 
Against the swell, offshore

The water in the old granite trough
Flat glassy black, reflecting a rectangle
Of constellations. One cupped leaf
Floats in a block of universe

There is always one spider
In the bath, alternating
Standing very still with another
Scrabbling offensive upwards

There is always one slug
In the shower, trailing, trailing
Over the tiled wall, no-one
Knows what it is looking for

Woodlice gather in a fallen
Apple, they have made 
Tunnels all through it
An edible house

A moth zigzags at 
The lamp, jerking  
Across the room like
A series of hiccups

Cat re-stalks her mouse
She can taste the soft delectable
Flesh, killing is a function
Of cat, tooth and claw

Mouse in mouth, cat struts
Across the lamplight from the 
Window, a clear cut shadow
Attached at her heels

Juice oozes, drop by audible
Drop, from the flat apples
Under the press plate
Into a five gallon bucket

On top of the wood-burner
Is a pile of stones, all confiscated
From the dog, she has
Three more hidden in her basket

Sky traffic passes under 
Stars, light that travels towards 
Looks different to the light 
That travels away 

Transformation by worms 
Happens in the magic box of the 
Compost bin, what we don’t eat
Will feed a garden


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