For all bifurcating branches
Sublime in their simplicity,
A dog has very little need
Indeed, yet with joyous barks
No less retrieves
Between what we deemed
Essential, or inbetween,
Or instead invented;
This contrast is at times
A subtle one,
Like sunlight through
Ever since antiquities
In these dark-shaded parks
Of our entwining souls;
Yet if not for that twisted,
Rotten tooth of birch
In boggy undergrowth,
There would be no us,
Nor any running dog at all.
Am walking my dog, but my
Dog is walking me.
A canine is constantly
Pacing long-lawn frost.
She wore clothes in the country way,
Waxy coat with stoat-skin underlay,
Cottonopolis cloth in Wellington boots
Appearing behind the hawthorn roots.
This landed lady lost two of her dogs
Somewhere beyond the dream-line fogs,
My task to pursue both near and far,
I could not see her Isabella fur-hidden scar.
Traversing hills and greenfinch lanes
I searched through snow and seven rains,
Crossing torrents, the Fells in spate,
All memories she would eradicate,
Until I crossed a last long moor
And found the exhausted Labrador
Alongside a shadowing Sheltie.
I returned to my love bareback on a Kelpie,
Imagined rewards, her embrace and her kiss,
But I had wandered far from such bliss,
For her head had since turned a form of darker:
A country lady’s body bound to an Ovcharka.
Jack Russell Terrier tracking down
A rabbit black hole belly found,
Scent of bobtail buried hound,
Within a warren’s mapless town.
Suddenly trapped, and no way back,
For a month in a forest left for dead;
No walks in the park, no sharing the bed,
Your mother drank a heart attack.
I’ve been cleaning again, and you can tell,
It’s an ocean of bleach, a rusty nail,
Just within reach, you cannot fail,
It is odourless in a lagomorph hell.
Larsen trap, ravens,
Borstal teardrop in a dream,
Blood dog shifts crime scenes.
Appeared at the door of dreams.
She looked thinner, sad.