Poetry

I never though him dead.
Only running in the park,
as I jog, beside.
and sitting stretched by the fire,
or with his paw,
pushing his dish,
'more water,now'.

And barking, for post
and visitor and exits.
and up the stairs at ten
and down again at six.

A rhythm of memories
and habits.
Until his back legs gave,
and the vets scanning eyes,
'he has had a good life'.
 i held him as he passed,
and watched him, in tears,
go, to another field,
I still can sense him here,
in the house,
on the staircase just past ten,
or in the hall at six,
or lying on the duvet sleeping.