Ted Hughes(1930–1998)
The Thought-Fox
I i m a g i n e this m i d n i g h t m o m e n t ' s forest:
S o m e t h i n g e l s e is alive
B e s i d e t h e clock's l o n e l i n e s s
A n d this b l a n k p a g e w h e r e m y fingers m o v e .
T h r o u g h t h e w i n d o w I s e e no star:
S o m e t h i n g m o r e n e a r
T h o u g h d e e p e r w i t h i n d a r k n e s s
Is e n t e r i n g t h e l o n e l i n e s s :
C o l d , d e l i c a t e l y a s t h e dark s n o w ,
A fox's nose touches twig, leaf;
T w o e y e s serve a m o v e m e n t , that n o w
A n d again n o w , a n d n o w , a n d n o w
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 a 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.