DOG GONE

Newspaper plops through locked front door

With news of great distress across the world.

No bark greets the intrusion of war and disaster.

First World problems rear their pretty heads;

Come here, go there, buy this, buy that, consume and sue.

Have something for nothing, it’s your due.

But here, right here, the world is colder by degrees.

No global heat in Grimescar Valley; the people stay indoors,

Their blood unwarmed by walking marathons.

Food once gusto gobbled, rots, bagged and binned.

Black cat emboldened sits composed in a bed

Of hardy perennials, studying the bird table. Rats encroach.

Mud dries hard on boots, the body stiffens.

The museum house lies cold, quiet and clean

The roaring turbo vacuum stowed silent in the dark.

It was my companion who made the introductions

To the horses, the magpies, the jays, the acorns,

Our daily forensic examination of Blake’s Promised Land.

But now no ear is cocked to listen to my poem,

No dark brown eye to monitor my mood.

I come and go unnoticed, encased in steel.

The world is changed by great events and even more by small.

“Do you miss the dog?” they ask.

Yes, naturally; and more, I miss myself.