Pauly

A poem about a fox.

Its eyes, long since pecked out by hungry birds, nevertheless exuded a certain calmness, along with offal and rot. As he lay there, hopeless, beside the rock-pool, slowly decomposing in the midsummer’s heat, he possessed a strange beauty. Well traveled, no doubt, his fur matted with the saline air of the coast, he possessed the aura of a soul that had been through the motions. That had scaled great heights, loved, and lost it all.

   There was scarcely a second between the sun being blocked out and it reappearing again with a ‘thud’ as 40k of rock met with skull. Any notion of poetic grandiose ebbed away, as a spider-web trickle of some ambiguous liquid carried little floats of pulp and membrane and parasites towards my feet.

RIP Pauly.