The Silver Fox

The old silver fox laid down his head
Burrowed down and took one last breath
Before falling into an eternal slumber,
The peaceful sleep of the dead.

They gathered around his fallen form
And crying a river of tears, told his life stories  
Which fell like rain on to the place where he lay
Beneath the full moon
One Tuesday in June. 

And the earth turned still
Made its way, 
Its inexorable, ceaseless way
Around the sun
The circuit of life 
Tracing patterns of stars in the night sky  
Moving to the tempo of the seasons 

From the tear soaked ground 
Arose a tangle of verdant growth
A soft bed of grass
Bedecked with bright flowers  
Beneath the sprouting shoots of saplings
And the hum of honey bees

But every year in June
They gather by the light of the moon 
On the glistening beach where the silver fox used to prowl
With his rough growl and his big scarred heart
To remember him

They gather in the shadow of the trees
On the edge of the sea
Now thick and tall with age
Lush with the sound of birds 
Awake with the rustle of life

And they share new stories
Seeded in the past 
Connected in their beginnings
Now expanded, grown 
Stretched out in a myriad of glorious directions

Their laughter rings into the night
Reverberates amongst the trees
And deep in the woods
A wispy silver shadow
Slips through the night
Content with his legacy.
Sharlene Zeederberg, revised June 2020 - In memory of my father, Terry Weedman.

Published by Sharlene Zeederberg

Writer, poet, dreamer, traveller, mother, amateur philosophiser, juggler, consumer behaviour specialist, psychology student.

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