Ted Hughes was a great poet who married a greater poet - Sylvia Plath - and who, when he died, woke up on the moon.

In the moon-shire where he found himself, there were packs of stiff-brushed foxes with red jackets and unhuman eyes. They swaggered and bragged and spat and swore through black-lipped mouths with slim black tongues and teeth that were sharp little nubs of ivory.

When they saw Hughes, the foxes cried, "Tally-ho, the gentry!" and "Kill the bastard!" and "Yoicks!" They dropped onto all fours and ran after him, horses and hounds and hunters all in one.

The hair stood up on the back of Ted Hughes's neck, sweat leapt to his brow, his lips writhed, and his eyes filled with tears. His bowels clenched.

He ran.

The foxes pursued.

Up hill and down crater, the foxes chased the poet, clods of dirt flying from their paws. They drove him from the mountains into the sterile seas of the moon.

Desperate, Ted Hughes ran from rock to rock looking for a lair, a haven - shelter of any sort. It was terrible, terrible, terrible. Then he saw an opening in the rocks.

Into the square dark space he dove, and slammed the door behind him. Safe at last!

And then he smelled gas.

in homage to TH's "A Moon Man-Hunt"