A bark at bedtime

He lies on the floor,
feet to the door,
back to the press,
with kibble bowl ahead,
empty for now.

Getting things ready for him,
water and food for the night,
he sits up in reaction,
then lies back and stretches,
resuming his snooze.

Untying my laces,
shedding my shoes,
I pad about
to click on the kettle
for tea, for me.

He drinks some water,
whips his ears in a shake,
couch scratches a bit,
that unsettled bed,
waiting his time.

He inspects my toes with his nose,
in passing to the door.
Noise brings him to bark,
asking me if I am ready to rest?

So to finish this ode,
and make the last line,
before we head for the hills,
he barks … a few times.

© Howard Fox, 2017

Sunday Morning

Two herons fly north tonight, over a moonlit high tide. Gemini in a western sky guides celestially the first plane in to the airport to land. Wavelets lap and swoosh as seaweeds are drift up. Oberon takes me out for this, for a rainbow around the moon, thin cloud, dewy cars and damp grass. So to sit on the harbour slip, crocs idle in dry sand, tempts me to make the first footprints on land, on a Sunday morning, wet after the turned tide.

Vespers on Culture Night

We set off down the hill, looking for a glade and the Elm wood. Fingers feel their raspy leaves and their corky stems; a sensation some decades ago that was part of a child’s universe. On a day with an evening shower, the yews will keep our shoulders dry. We walk up the hill, as the river flows, and emerge from the trees protection, looking up at the Cedar of Lebanon as it recedes into the sky, a 20 metre parapluie, with a rainbow to the east. While we dash to shelter of the next Pin Oak, walking in soft shoes on acorn cupules, and round to the Holm Oak with the Payne’s grey Diploicia on the trunk base, where we tarry, for the next phase of the walk is exposed. Wet spectacles are wiped clear when we complete the round, and fog up as Burco tea in the galley from a hot tap flows. Such tea soothes our spirits, before the contemplation ahead.