Foxed by Linda Goulden



by linda goulden





Linda Goulden lives between a river and a canal at the edge of the Dark Peak. Her poems have appeared in anthologies, magazines, online, in song and in woodland.



I heard you on the hill:
that reeking call
of lust or hunger
that can fill a valley up.
I knew where you had been:
across the cut, raiding
the reed edge, or digging
the last rabbit out.
I watched your children:
snub-nosed, at water-side,
playing land games
of bite and fight.
And, once, you looked
me in the eye and held
my gaze until we turned
each to her own side of it.
My neighbour was
beside the brook,
digging the bank,
when he uncovered you.
How small, your bones.

Linda Goulden


At a year’s turn by Linda Goulden