There are foxes in my garden.
They play there every day.
They look quite flea-bitten and tatty.
I expect they are here to stay.

Resting, rolling and chasing,
And sleeping in the sun.
They are looking for food,
When they are not having fun.

It can’t be an easy life,
Constantly alert to danger.
Although it is my garden,
I’ll be forever a stranger.

They are a joy to watch.
A privilege to observe their world.
Scratching themselves feverishly,
With their tails uncurled.

However, when they dig for worms,
My joy becomes more fleeting.
And I tend not to welcome them,
With a smile and warm greeting.

Rather, its ‘Go-on-You’ and ‘Shift’,
With two advancing paces.
Then it’s over the wall they go,
To play in another garden, Grace’s.