All Hallows Eve, another vixen fresh off Hackney Marsh,

her voice loud, screeching, sensing rivals, enemies,

the loose bins out back. You have your head low

under the white blinds, watching her frozen

by the parked cars, a keen eye on the shadows.

She is healthy, plumped up, with a good coat.

Each night this week we’ve had the foxes bait us

from our dreams; they patrol the crisscrossed streets

and duck through hedges on the park of the estates.

We saw three, mother and two cubs, peering at us

from a garage roof, nonplussed, inquisitive.

We try so much to live our lives beyond our lives

and what we see in front of us: new year, blue sky,

frost on the footpath, people dumbed by summer,

blowing at fists; the nights drawing in and the cold snap

descending like a benediction; the foxes sharing our streets,

the way they have always seen you before you see them.