Richard Golding


Last night, I lay beside him on the floor.
His ears perked up, his tail gave one little thump and then lay quiet.
I worked my hand down into his fur,
into the soft undercoat, and let my hand rest against his warmth.
He slept.

This morning, he lays beneath the ground,

Time passes, things change, dogs leave us.
But this one—this one is hard.

                    10 March 2015