My sister, who lives at the edge of parkland on the outskirts of Belfast tells me that they are frequent garden visitors, as does my friend, Peter Kenny, who regularly spots them in Brighton’s suburbs.
I recall the thrill of an occasional dusk encounter with a fox in the woodland at Stormont, when I lived in Northern Ireland.
Former Mayor of London, Boris Johnson, described foxes as a menace.
As my dear mother might have remarked, it takes one to know one.
Sadly, we have no foxes in Guernsey.
Fox, on the grass, swept before his brush
as though his threadbare shape were rubbish,
hurries then pauses, scenting what?
Man, of course,
whose heavy boots tramped that way this afternoon,
bearing his entitlement
like a weapon.