Poetry Centre

Night Running through Oxford

  • I run when the moon’s a fingernail
    laughing at the sky.
    I glide through cloisters
    where stunted faces goggle disapproval,
    past cardboard men who spit at me,
    smelling of chicken wings.
     
    Forgetting pavements,
    I slide into the silence
    of Barracks Lane
    where frost sprays the tin-foil path;
    paws hiss on frozen grass
    and my fox’s tail salutes the moon.

    by Yvonne Lyon