Brent Cross muntjac.
hollow, the croaking bark, within night frost,
a near echo, across vales; veils of traffic rush,
staggered rounds, that sound, abound, sharp—
the buck to the doe, and back once again,
taming a-roads, slip-roads and grim flyovers,
to a fading wilderness, aside poison, pestillence,
spectral with the stillness, the perverse voices,
always in high winter (same as the tawnies),
beckoning faint, across sleeping rows of homes—
ever the marvel, glinting like gold.