Snow Fox
His feet are moth wolves
padding in the blot of white and blue,
head low - a sharp salmon snap
the horizon tempts.
His breath is wet,
cleaned upon the static heart
the ground becomes;
bitter laps of water,
frigid claps of earth.
He faces the wind,
teased upon his fur;
a set of fingers, sharpening instinct,
eyes –
clots of amber,
pinpricked
by the rabbit’s tail.
His kiss is heady,
and his sprint a gale;
a fright of diamonds
in the winter’s sun.
Marianne Louise Daniels
Fri 28th Sep 2012 12:20
Thank you for reading and your comments folk.
Hello Graham! Thank you.
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