THE FOX AND THE HEDGEHOG
MEET AGAIN,
OR ‘ARCHILOCHUS’
Tom Rogers
Dawn,
At the edge of a field,
Atop the barren weald,
The hedgerow shields the run,
Of the kit, ‘gainst the sun,
Yonder,
The hedgehog emerges,
Just as the finch
surges,
Up from the bush nest
drew,
The hedgehog’s snout
pressed to,
Earthy,
The hedgehog snorts and
puffs,
Then sniffs for worms in
bluffs,
The fox has time short,
Scans the land like a
chort,
Suddenly,
Their eyes meet in
greeting,
One to other fleeting,
The fox, a hunter
stares,
The hedgehog, frit of lairs,
Wisely,
The hedgehog curls to quills,
And now remains quite
still,
The apt fox tries a muddle,
He sees a small puddle,
Dashing,
The hedgehog runs to
nest,
The fox darts to arrest,
And waits with piercing
eyes,
For the hedgehog’s short
cries,
Stilly,
The hedgehog waits calmly,
The fox soothes charmingly,
That all is safe to
emerge,
The hedgehog bucks this
scourge,
Crafty,
The fox lets cry a hark,
For biddables to mark,
Then took off in
pretence,
And hid behind a fence,
Waiting,
The hedgehog knew one
thing,
That patience is the ring,
And laid shyly in nest,
Until the fox had left,
Tally ho!
The pack rush across weald,
Smell their quarry afield,
The fox acute and wrought,
Hears the feet, knows
the sport,
Quarry,
The pack smells fox’s
blood,
He freezes, and stands
in mud,
No bield for the fox
now,
He shall be hung from
bough.
