Death Under The Locust Tree Poem by Raymond Farrell

Today
There was a dead bird
Under the locust tree
I do not know
The names of the birds
In Zhejiang province
But it was the same species
As those who sing each evening
In the bamboo
I remember
When the reality
Of what death is
Was revealed to me
It was not in a book
Or a dream
There was no bright soft light
At the end of a tunnel
It was harsh, stark and mournful
I was 8 years old
And for as long as I could remember
My grandfather's dog, Teddy
Had been my constant companion
A wise, kind creature
When needed, he herded the sheep
Or fetched the cows for milking
But otherwise
All summer long
We roamed meadows and forests together
It was a cold, late August morning
I sat in the kitchen
Next the wood stove
Waiting for breakfast
To be served
My uncle came in from chores
And softly spoke
Into my grandfather's ear
Sensing something amiss
I asked what's wrong
He replied
Teddy died in the night
He's out back of the hen house
I bolted out the door
To go see him
There he lay
As if asleep
With a placid look
On his face
Eyes closed
I touched his body
Now cold and stiff
I rubbed his paws
I stroked his head
Gently running my fingers through his hair
Nothing happened
I began to sob
I put my arms around his neck
And called his name
My uncle and grandfather arrived
My uncle tried to reason with me
He's just a dog
He said
My grandfather cut him off abruptly
No he's not just a dog
He was Teddy
And now, he's gone.