Holidog

The wide pale blue, milk stirred through it

a vague moon still out, horses’ tails lash satin

it’ll be warm soon.

Bella, my holidog, weaves

under early elderberries

with her typical hoovering nose sweep

just the occasional frown back

as if to say,

‘you’re not too good at this, are you?’

I respond despondently.

All the nature fruit seems early

blacks, hips, haws, elders

even a few embarrassed sloes

line the bridle-path, like

nosey neighbours.

Truthfully, we’ve overdone it

especially following the 4am piddle call

Bella’s not mine, for a change.

So we share my water in cupped hands

then the drag home, and

as she flops on her bed

I get one last cynical glance, to say

‘it’s day one, you’re going to have to learn

to pace yourself’.

*

© Graham Sherwood 08/2019