Foxy Lady

She is small and full of glee,
a laugh made of bone and bright fluff
Her fur is soft, brown, long,
spiked out not as punk but as puff
When I come to her gate she dips and jumps
and speaks with yaps and yips that shine in the air
She runs to me and sniffs my knees,
looks up with bronze eyes full of hug
and hope for a treat and a pat and a rub
of tum and a stroke of back, which, of course,
she’ll get.