Filíocht Nua: New Poetry

Abstract

Filíocht Nua: New Poetry Katie Donovan foxed A thief, a killer, a miscreant. Ignored, despised, driven out. I He waits in the garden, shivering in the April chill. Inside, we are full-bellied warm and well. His fluffy ears and smart black socks look fine, but his flanks are bald, his tail a dangling rope. His skin is on fire with pestilent mites. Snap! go his hungry teeth scratching himself. Three weeks now he’s been turning up for this: a dish of meat laced with healing drops. So far, there’s been no change. [End Page 59] II He wanted a lifeline that day he crept close to show me his ruined coat. He’d lost everything: rest; heat; comfort; the energy to scavenge— even fear. The upshot of mange is slow starvation. I’ve had enough of watching death win: I took the challenge, I reeled him in. III He hunches, bone thin, back legs tender and limping. The bands of fur around his eyes are ringed with crusted tracks. The ginger cat stalks him, but he’s not tuned for play. He shies, accustomed to being moved along. [End Page 60] IV The birds are busy flitting and darting, enjoying the long day, boasting of nests. Under their feeder fox snuffles, hoping for dropped nuts. What I give him is never enough. While they sleep in feathered bunches, fox finds the outdoor larder I’ve forgotten to close in the back, where he knows he’s not welcome. He drags out a pack of biscuits, scoffs the pink slabs and gulps down the paper. One day he found my glove and ate the leather finger. [End Page 61] V He sets aside the raw bone he will cache to eat later, in the lean hours. He licks out the dish then lifts the bone firmly in his jaw, trotting off with purpose. He’s back at twilight, as the cold sets in wanting more. I see a pus-filled lump beneath the new tufts finally clothing his long-suffering tail. I assemble salmon scraps topped with Echinacea. I’ve a lot riding on this fox: I’d better not fail. VI He sits waiting, ears cocked, circling when I emerge, bowl in hand, redolent of the butcher’s floor: off-cuts I have begged on his behalf. After eating, he lingers, yawns, and curls beside his feline double: a coppery pair toasting in the sun. [End Page 62] VII He likes stale cake, his ears lie flat and his jaw works blissfully, his whole body focussed on it, like an arrow. I find a patch of flattened grass where he lay, long dry stalks make a fine summer bed. VIII By August, russet hairs cover his haunch; his white-tipped tail plumes full. His golden eyes survey the garden. Next door a drill grinds. The rain slaps down. He holds his ground, and waits. This is his place. [End Page 63] IX Fox sees the front door open: it’s quiet, and the waft of food tempts him. He slips in. The kitchen door is closed so he slinks upstairs. The rabbit thumps her back foot on the cage floor: alarm. The two lady cats— whose domain this is— hiss and fluff their tails. Hearing the outcry, I huff past the feline flurry to my bedroom, where I find him cowering beside the bookcase: cornered, but looking oddly at home. After he leaves, I soothe the rabbit, the cats, my children. We even put the chain on. We’ve had burglars before. We’ve lost a rabbit too, years ago, to one of his kind. But he has taken nothing: just upended our assumption about what belongs outside, and what comes in. [End Page 64] X Even without the flash of his red pelt, I leave a full dish, in good faith, until I see the cats at it. They guzzle the smelly fare they’d never touch, unless it was to deprive a rival of his portion. It’s five days now since he appeared, and we are flummoxed: this fox was one of us. postscript I don’t check for him, I don’t...