We walked the long road to Templeogue.
Trees lined the street,

their rheumatic joints aching dampness and cold.
We found the fox with its dank head

in a puddle, the dark rusty bristles of its fur
hardening into the wind like old nails.

I wanted to lift it over the wall
into a field where the grass and leaves

would discolour into its skin as it fell asleep
into the soil, remembering the red dogs of Wicklow

and their snow felt steps into the dark, outside our door.
But we were hesitant, unsure, afraid of disease

and cold with rain. Standing over the fox's body
with no benediction other than the thought

that things are passing from our lives. And so,
we walked on, with our small hurts

to content with, until we turned from Terenure
to Templeogue and by some magic I looked

behind to see the fox alive and skulking by a tree,
darting off, it seemed, in every direction possible.