(a fox love poem)
There in the heather, down near the fen,
Where thistles wile whimsy, and ferns all attend.
Low in the bracken, bramble and brush,
Flowers sing sonnets to the Sun's bashful blush.
Here in the briar as raindrops still fall,
Spring beckons its May morning call.
Troth in affection, both red and white,
Foxes in love, to dawning day light.