In the gathering dusk
of a dying Winter's day ;
The Kent fox comes trotting
as the sunset fades .

Through ancient , sleeping , apple orchards .
Suffused ;
With the lingering smoke
of dead-wood fires .

Quartering ,
the forest of Blean .
Wreathed ,
in drifts of mist .

Ginger footsteps ,
across frost-kissed fields .
Where Caesars Romans
once marched and lived .

Guided by familiar marks ,
he stops to sniff the evening breeze .
Or perhaps to sight the stars ,
glinting through the soughing trees .

Not so sly , or cunning .
But with senses finely tuned .
Moving through
the Kentish countryside .

Picked out
by the silvery light ,
from the
cloud edged moon .

This lone little hunter
should not be so chased .
And never by dogs
run into the ground .

He should be free to survive .
And allowed to be lost .
To live out his life .
And never be found .