Sweet smells the morning air

As cool deep draughts are drawn

While yet the rolling mists

To ghostlike fellsides cling.


Each footstep falls upon

The luscious turf and scatters o’er

A thousand sparkling diamonds

Of the glistening dew.


And there, ears pricked,

The watchful vixen lays

Alert to slightest scent or sound

While warming in the rising sun.


Around her play her tiny cubs

Which skip and scamper, jump and run

Before descending for the day

Within the tunnelled mound.

By Alan Gane