by Ted Hughes
I imagine this midnight moment’s forest:
Something else is alive
Beside the clock’s loneliness
And this blank page where ny fingers move.
Through this window I see no star
Something more near
Though deeper within darkness
Is entering the loneliness:
Cold, delicately as the dark snow
A fox’s nose touches twigs, leaf;
Two eyes serve a movement, that now
And again now, and now, and now
Sets neat prints into the snow
Between trees, and warily a lame
Shadow lags by stump and in hollow
Of a body that is bold to come
Across clearings, an eye
A widening deepening greenness
Brilliantly, concentratedly
Coming about its own business
Till, with sudden sharp hot stink of fox
It enters the dark hole of the head
The window is starless still; the clock ticks,
The page is printed.
Robin's Nest 