Old Bitch

Old Bitch

Thick peaty silence and rhythmic tick of clock
Starts into insignificance
Silenced by that familiar sound:
The rubbery squeak and effort
Of waterproofs donned.

More immediate now,
Rain beats a furious and
Irregular tattoo
On dusty glass panes,
Ruffling feathers of damply clustered
Sheltering hens,
Water dripping from dismal beaks.

Collie ears prick to attention.
And eyes
Though dim of sight
Sparkle
With knowing
Yet impotent expectation –
She was always one to follow.

Staring out through open porch door
Puffing aromatic pipe smoke stuff
Old eyes,
Hard boiled and
Stewed by life’s long simmering
Moisten a little,
Glistening with a dewing glaze
Searching inwards amongst memory’s
Rich store.

Unbidden
The old bitch was always one to follow –
Though not on Sabbath –
Tail to trail
Trotting a pace just behind.

When younger
Testing tangy scents of salty shore,
Fascination gripped
By sandpipers darting advances
And fleet footed retreats
From foam flecked surging;

And warm summer days
Amidst fresh mown hay
Stiffly erect
High pitched yelps and
Pouncing fore paws sought out
Elusive field mice
While Pewits
Needlessly anxious
Swooped and fluttered.

She’ll follow no longer
That old bitch.
Nor will she stay at low tide
Tethered for death at high water.
Ever patient she awaits
Her hearts' hearing desire.