In the wild wood, dry from days of
cold hard sunshine, water trickles
wearily over granite gravel beds
Grey wagtails still dance the Spring
worrying after insects wavering over
white garlic flowers,
embedded in rock faults
tucked hard into the crease where felled beech meets
compacted clay, rustling
down cracking mud banks
as you walk,a faint undernote of dusty laurel spikes,
whip around in the wind, skittling along
dusty old paths,
cow parsley froths upwards and bluebells
peek through low branches and hang
sweetly over ivy and under new leaves.
Steph and her collies, Jane and her terriers,
me and the poodles, we march around
the top field, pursued by the mowing man
on his big machine
(the dandelions duck under his blades – they
have been doing so for years)
Shall we go round again?
Talking of dentists and compulsory DNR
for the over seventies – or so someone
read in the paper – and who is getting a
new puppy and about we go and down
again along the Trym, the crows calling and glaring
waiting for Frank and his bag of bread.
Sometimes the light shafts the trees
just so, and I could swear there are angels there.
(another of the dogwalk poems, I know I am repetitive)