Today’s poem was written in response to reading Luk 9.57-62. It wasn’t my intention to write but it just sort of happened. Just as I finished I saw a link to this on twitter: @publicissues Worrying news about the increase in rough sleeping in England:http://www.bbc.co.uk/news/uk-17141758
Made the poem seem more poignant.
FOXES HAVE HOLES
Fox, the city’s wild walker is resting,
hiding beneath the mounded earth.
She has fed;
feasted in the dark night
troubling the local livestock
with a distant furtive glance.
And above rests the slightness of chaffinch
who did not keep a nocturnal watch
over the passing and returning.
Instead she played the helpless sleeping soul
‘til daylight carried her to seeds
for the night watch to pass again
without disturbance or dismay.
And yet in the city, sleeps,
the man whose dreams were not disturbed
by passing steps.
Ignored by chaffinch and by fox,
this stranger’s bed,
left unperturbed by comfort,
became a holy icon.
Foxes have holes,
and birds their nests,
but the son of man has nowhere
to lay his head.