Sharp sickle, clean and cutting, 
curves in a neat hug, semi-halo, 
curled crescent new, launching 
a homecoming, glow in the sky, 
a warm grin on a winter’s night 
as if someone had lit a beacon 
to hail the wanderer’s safe return 
by the skirt of the inky park.

The fox and I halt, eye each other, 
who invades whose territory
and who crosses whose path? 
The shock of rust coat, rustling, 
emerges from distant darkness, 
scuttles across road into gardens 
and I similarly home to feed
on anything I can scavenge.