Resourceful And Cunning the Fox (Vulpes Vulpes) Poem by john (called jack) wren

Ice holds water in a vice like grip
Waiting for the unwary to trip,
Ploughed fields are frozen and hold
The worm, like defiant rock holds gold,
Cocooned and paralysed in its grip
With only frost for a pillow slip;
A head appears in the cheerless night
With eyes and nose ready to ignite
The flame of caution if danger is near
Caution the byword, for this scrutineer.
Slender in body, slim in girth,
His feet leave no mark on the earth,
As with a quicker bolder stride
He leaves the den unoccupied.
And searches with menacing eye
For anything that could rectify
The yearning coming from within
Without a break in discipline.
Silence, brings out nervous souls
From the security of their holes,
Death is waiting, for those who pry
And let their senses go awry.
A poor wee soul is trapped in his jaw
Whose pleas are heard by many a score,
Who cringe in fear and sink out of sight
Blending in with the black of the night.
Behold, the master has his fill
One more to jingle in life's till,