Not so strange, a flash
of fox, standing by the side
of the Westway, no stranger
than the deserted carriageway,
the yolky light, the city running silent.
What was odd was my urge
to stop, gather her into my arms,
carry her to safe grass
where she�d butt my chin like a cat,
claws doing no damage, no rank fur.
I wanted to hear her shriek
in my garden, her mate barking,
as I came awake in our bed,
stepped to the window to see her
staring at me from the lawn.
I kept on driving, eyes fixed
on the rear-view mirror,
the inquisitive forager,
paws held high, testing
the asphalt, like snow.
One Under
They unwrapped her on the platform,
cutting through her clothes, smart skirt,
pearl-buttoned blouse, like running scissors
through the cellophane of a bouquet.
Pale and naked, she was almost perfect.
Her discarded arm lay just above her head,
palm upwards, shaped for sunbathing
or a soft drape over pillows waiting
for a lover to come to bed. Her puddle of hair
was rich blonde, face pretty as my daughter�s.
A shiny black handbag was left marooned
by the yellow line. The driver sat on a stool,
shoulders bunched. He�d caught only a glimpse
of movement as she tucked her head and rolled
like a child somersaulting over her teacher�s arm.
Each shallow breath pumped more of her away,
blood pooling against the waiting-room wall.
It took six of them to hold her stretcher straight
as they laboured up the steps, a dulling trail
leading nowhere in the street outside.
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September 11 2001
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