In the ocean when the tide trumps,
Wind shifts
And the waves sweep the shore
While conches and mother pearls are
Spread over the sand
They forget to craw I back,
If they could become creepers
Or trees
Or hills
Which get lost in the clouds
They could have remembered
The days of vegetation and smell.
Those men and women who have not
Come to live on earth yet
I want to leave behind
A consolation for them-
Beauty is a shelled seed closed
And unknown
It may sprout forth as a creeper
Or into a many-branched tree.
The thought-fox
Ted Hughes
I imagine this midnight moment’s forest:
Something else is alive
Beside the clock’s loneliness
And this blank page where my fingers move.
Through the window I see no star:
Something more near
Though deeper within darkness
Is entering the loneliness :
Cold, delicately as the dark snow,
A fox’s nose touches twig, leaf;
Two eyes serve a movement, that now
And again now, and now, and now
Sets near prints into the snow
Between trees, and warily a lame
Shadow lags by stump and in hollow
Of a body that is bold to come
Across clearings, an eye,
A widening deepening greenness,
Brilliantly, concentratedly,
Coming about its own business
Till, with a sudden sharp hot stink of fox
It enters the dark, hole of the head.
The window is starless still; the clock ticks,
The page is printed.
