Pens and eyes to paper,
the class focussed,
except for one.
First he smelt it, warm, earthy, rancid. He heard
fox come from behind padding smoothly forward,
moving purposefully down the aisle between the desks.
No-one else seemed to notice. Was this his own thought-fox?
Then the rusty brown fur brushed his trouser leg.
The fox stopped and looked sideways at him
like a dog at Crufts, waiting for directions.
The boy looked round to catch someone’s eye.
“Can’t you see him!” But they didn’t.
In a blink the fox had vanished.
His smell, gloss, his arrogant confidence
stayed like a gift – a secret gift.
The boy knew now that he could escape
this closed classroom, his noisy family tussles,
his mean, untidy bedroom. He would wait.
The fox and the dream would come again.
He was certain. He smiled, sat more upright.
“Pens down” said the teacher
who had seen nothing
and knew little.