Sunday, January 08, 2017

1001. The Dog Itself - Helen Farish

Memory rounds this up, breathless,
like the dog herding sheep
below the bedroom window:
dropped at my feet are smells –
wool in the rain, my aunt’s
cigarette smoked on the hoof,
gorse also, firs making green
(and what it all means,
that too has a smell).
Not forgetting the dog itself,
so pleased with its work,

I must pen it in quick.

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