Bernard Kennedy (20 May 1956 / dublin)

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

And barking, for post,
and visitor, and exits,
from his home domain,
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 and happy life'.

I help him as he passed,
and watched him go,
to another field or park.

I can still sense him here,
in the house,
on the staircase just past ten,
and at the duvets' edge.

Luther was the collies name.