We had finished the baked camembert
and begun to talk of the future
when we heard a dog fox bark up on the Downs
and went quickly into the garden.
The moon was full, large and low. The imagined,
fabricated constellations glimmered
in the polluted air. The fox was silent
or gone softly over the flints and the chalk
and all we had was the memory
of that wild sound across the long years
of settlement – like the echo of a star.