Ted Hughes　　I imagine this midnight moment's forest:　　Something else is alive　　Besides the clock's loneliness　　And this blank page where my fingers move.

　　Through the window I see no star:　　Something more near　　Though deeper within darkness　　Is entering the loneliness:　　Cold, delicately as the dark snow,　　A fox's nose touches twig, leaf;　　Two eyes serve a movement, that now　　And again now, and now, and now　　Sets neat prints into the snow　　Between trees, and warily a lame　　Shadow lags by stump and in hollow　　Of a body that is bold to come　　Across clearings, an eye,　　A widening deepening greenness,　　Brilliantly, concentratedly,　　Coming about its own business　　Till, with sudden sharp hot stink of fox　　It enters the dark hole of the head.

　　The window is starless still; the clock ticks,　　The page is printed.

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