Old Faithful Dog
I never thought him dead.
Only running in the park,
and sitting stretched by fire,
or with his paw,
pushing the dish,
' more water now'.
And barking, for post,
and visitor, and exits,
from his home domain,
and up the stairs at ten,
and down again at six.
A rhythm of memories
Until his back legs gave,
and the vets scanning eyes
' he has had a good and happy life'.
And my heart sank.
I held him as he passed,
and watched him go,
to another field or park.
This time without a leash.
I can still sense him here,
in the house,
on the staircase just past ten,
and at the duvets' edge.
Luther was the collies name.
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(1 February 1927)
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Edgar Allan Poe
(19 January 1809 - 7 October 1849)
(1 February 1902 – 22 May 1967)
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