Wednesday, 20 May 2009


I’m by the cruel bramble bush
Which no longer tries to spear me
From its uneasy perch upon the welder’s
Fence, as its limbs have been diminished by
This year’s befitting winter, and are withered
In antipathy because of it. And really a back
Lane is no place for nature to renew itself
Anyway, although I shift the dog along
To avoid the possibility of its frozen
Thorns and am thanked by a jolt
That accompanies his recall of
The two mutts further on.

At least I remember the last time
He tangled with these branches and
Raked his back, even if he doesn’t, and
I also know how close he’ll get to the
Other hounds’ compound before
Wailing away from its growls.

He’s a lovely fellow, but
Not as bright as his brother,
Who doesn’t go out much these
Days, and lives all the longer for
It, and when I get the youngster
To my Mother’s he’ll likely be
Lauded as if he won his
Fight with fear.

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