Bone white stone bleeds
shadow on the grass.The air dulls.
Outside the coffee shop, a girl
is stacking chairs. A scooter putters by.
The tourists have gone back to their hotels.
A shifting of the light. A slur
of movement, and he’s there,
trotting past the sundial.
No Reynard in a red coat.
Ash grey, sandy flanks
all smudged with mud,
his eyes ink black, cautious.
Rat-back snapper, chicken slasher,
worm chewer, sparrow splitter,
knocker down of bins,
lurking in the shadows
by the pub’s back door.
He stops there in the sunlight,
eyes me over.
Resolving I am neither threat
nor promise, trots away
down College Street and into Minster Yard.