NOTES TO SELF

When early morning mist

rises over cream-coloured cows,

light will play tricks,

rolling in tall grass or lolloping

long and low towards you.

And when sun rides like fire

over late evening tides,

that rough-coated shadow

will still tail you along the strand,

head-down, nose to wind.

Our hall will remember the sound

of her heavy-pelted shake

and the robin yet come looking

for shed hair and moist crumbs –

though your heart won’t always

leap at each short bark

outside the kitchen window,

or supper involve

cooking extra or scraps.

So, bin tablets, book holidays,

frame pictures; but don’t

dare try to cut your fringe

when you’ve just had to have

the old dog put down.

Willow

5.6.1997 - 16.9.2012

RIP  xx