Fox shrieks, it is the hour of fox patrols between late taxis and dawn trucks. Be not afeard, the night is full of noises. Drowse and attune, like Caliban when voices haunt him. My bed’s an island where I’ve cried to dream again beside the ones who once lay close to me, the nearest. If I could only sleep and hear them speak. But in the dark outside the Mind Shop foxes must be tearing into stuff dropped off, unwanted, out of date. Bits they disdain will end washed up tomorrow in Tintagel Crescent, jetsam of ill-fitting shoes, a sack of toys, a bitten leather glove, inevitable baby clothes. My mind is running on the trash they leave mislaid or missed, matter once embraced debased, the vixen uttering her screech.
