Treasure Island

Linda Hepner

(London)

Untold


The word’s “untold, ”
And that’s the hole
In which Miss Fox lives
Hidden, just her nose
Poking through the verbiage,
Her twitching whiskers
Sensitive, discerning,
Sniffing out the wind,
Redefining the farmer’s signs,
All while above, around her come walkers
Talking of countryside and signs and views
And where the path leads, how this plot
Of land is prime for future plans.
She is the vixen, hidden,
Until unbidden
She slips into the grasses, weaves amongst the logs,
Chases to the homestead
Abducting the chickens with her knife teeth
And flees, only the useless barking of dogs
Waking the hedgehog wife.

LRH
5.12.06

Submitted: Sunday, May 14, 2006

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