Winter 2001 • Vol. XXIII No. 1 Poetry |

John Luke: “The Fox”

Believe you me, when I padded over the ploughlands to the old Galloway     placeI was no less taken aback by the windowpanecovered not, as it had first seemed, with Carrickmacross lace but a curtain of frost, than by the painter setting up his easelin a meadow in Clonoe, or Clonmain, my twitch as his badger and weasel brushes twitched. Since this was still high summer, since the whinvied with the cylinder of propanefor out-and-out yellowness, I assumed I had no more chance of getting    in than had Galloway of getting out, Galloway the blacksmith with his crab-    claw of a right arm—as if he'd never had "but ane"—Galloway who, in 1912, had stood in line at Balmoral to catch a glimpse     of Bonar Law.

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