Poem 159: Roses and the Burning Brush

in the diminishing countryside north of London
flaming in a field of snow, one foreleg raised
the fox, held still by the pounding Brit Rail train
pouring into the late December afternoon like a
charneled sluice gate, producing this one astounding
bell like view of the fox in the snow covered field.
I should have in that instant pulled the emergency cord,

and on the seat next to me in an otherwise empty
carriage, rose petals. Whenever I see snow, or even
more telling a train in snow as per Fellini/Lorca
productions, I am back with the fox, the sun was
setting, I remember the burning brush, and in my mind
a black branch cracking as the snow settled.
The fox stopped, looked at me and said “hey London
pull the friggin’ cord”, umbilical to the end, I could not.

The train pulled around the bend, slowing for the next
station,” O come all ye” was playing for the faithful
on the platforms loudspeaker system, interspersed
with Waterloo, Clapham Junction, Reading, Taunton
Exeter St Davids and all points westward leading.

There was a girl once in the West Country, she wore
a blue dress with small yellow flowers, had blonde hair
and green eyes, was in love with starlight, was speechless
for hours at night in the open, sitting between tree roots.
She would have pulled the cord. She married a man
twice her age, half her wit, but he gave her beautiful
children, so she looked no farther.

When her daughter looked at me many years later,
it felt like I was falling off a cliff, she said I had a nice
touch, light like light in a window, contained but
heavy enough to skim just below the surface,
“of what ” I asked, she smiled and said ” my smile”.
I still don’t know what she meant and I still wonder
about those damn rose petals.