Looking back, I saw
Death on a bicycle,
waving his scythe
and shouting Oi!,
his robes all caught up in the pedals.
Dismounting, he shook
a scabby fist.
I'll say this for him,
game old bird:
he doesn't give up.
The fox, to aid a raid or serenade,
will sometimes put on gloves the fairies made
to lead him safely through the world of men.
The watchful vixen or the fretful hen
may praise or curse the stealthful attributes
of such accessories as their case suits.
And to forestall the disbeliever, lest
some listener be prompted to protest
that here we have no foxes: is this true,
or does it show what gloves like these can do?
If you have any thoughts on these poems, David Callin would be
pleased to hear them.