THE FOX

Through woodland he prowls
In the darkness of night
The golden moon, his only light.
He’s sly, he’s cunning
He’s swift on his feet,
He’ll search the woodlands
For something to eat.

A sharp keen eye, a twitch of the ear,
He senses danger is coming near.
Keeping low, out of sight,
Afraid to run, afraid to fight,
The helpless fox, he lives in fear,
Hunted by man, year after year.

Their day of freedom
Will surely come,
When no more from man
And his hounds shall he run.
A day of hope, soon to be
When all the foxes
Shall then run free.

By
SHEILA FARRER
© Copyright Reserved 2006

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