The taut lead a tightrope, my shoulder so sore.
We arrive at the pinewoods, both foot and big paw.
My mate is akin to a child on the floor,
As he bumbles and stumbles his way through a war
With his senses acute and so very alert,
He fumbles and grumbles and growls at the dirt.
Paws and feet crush needles into their cushion
Of cones and green moss as we continue our mission
To scare off the Grey and rehome the Red,
To their natural abode, a welcoming bed
Of luxurious moist air aroming thick pine and sap,
Upon which does carry a muted dull clap
Of my hands as I spiral and gaze up at the sky
That is slashed and attacked by the thin arms of pine.
I wish they were mine, those arms and their cones
And their petulant swishing as I stand alone with my mate
Wishing that this was my home.
These woods have a ceiling through which peeps the sky.
Thick carpet beneath confirming the lie
That we are indoors, I’m sure that’s the truth,
These cylindrical royal pillars that hold up the roof
Of this magical place, it’s a pleasure to roam,
Just like the Red, our haven, our home.
The pines hide the dunes and the ocean beyond
And a distant sharp point, Formby’s arrow, a wand.
Pointing upwards and further to the escaping sky,
From the canopy of trees and I wonder why,
I’m denied this contentment from beneath the same sky.
A steam train behind me, he pants when he’s done.
And we scuffle back to a house that was once
A fairy lit bauble on a tree of my past.
My childhood has gone - a man …. at last.
From the sea to the beach to the pines to the field,
To the house and the life that my heart loves to feel,
Is so real and alive yet so dead but awake,
My memories fracture, they tremor and quake
At the sound of this village, the distant hum of a plane,
Generations roll on but this place remains the same.
My mate has a thirst, a lot like my own.
This walk is now done and we both have flown
The nests of our yesterdays, we’re on our way back.
He ponders the floor, his lead loose and slack.
© Copyright 2017 Richmaggs. All rights reserved.
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