Patrick Scott Hogg

Rookie - 53 Points (Galloway, SW SCOTLAND UK)

Epistle To Rock - The Author's Pet Labrador - Poem by Patrick Scott Hogg

By Loch Inch's gruns, green wuds amang,
Whar foxgloves scent the forest sang,
An' timid creatures coo'er;
Whar scabby doos flee o'er the sheugh,
An' brock the badger, in the bught
Keeks oot at gloamin' hour:
Aye, there I'd roam a while away
Wi Rock, ma black lab dog.
I'd let him aff the lead tae stray
Thru bracken, ditch or bog.
Quick wis he, wi' happy glee;
Snoakin' thru the wud;
Waggin tail, on the trail;
His paws black thick wi' mud.

His foreheid it was proud an' strang.
His shooders broad, his neck wis lang.
Smart, on his erse he sat.
Wi' poundin' paws an' flashin' een
He'd russle, rummage fast an' keen
The smell o' ony rat -
The fox, the pheasant and the hare
The bonnie mallard duek:
Got aff their mark when he wis there,
Ae step ahin their luck!
I shout sit! He did it...
Obedient, sae weel train'd!
Why ae lead? There's nae need!
His chain wis ne'er strain'd.

Ye'd no' believe whit he could dae.
Sine a' his work wis but his play,
Fast, fast they hairy legs!
Paw-to-paw, in trott'd hurry,
O'er the Devil's Arch he'd scurry,
Geth'rin' seagull eggs!
Aye, weel I min' his muted yelp,
While at the Fishpond door;
He'd f'und ae lobster 'mid the kelp
At low tide on the shore!
He carri'd fast; tae the last,
The scourge o' every mog;
At the shoot; sniffin' oot,
There wis nae better dog!

Then, ane day he ran o'er keen,
Across a road, but ne'er seen
The fast approachin' car:
He leapt the dyke, carrying ‘game',
Prompt tae his duty, his fixed aim:
My Dad watched frae afar -
The crash it stole my dog frae me -
A crunch o' steel on bone;
The driver stoppt and lookt tae see
Poor Rock, dead, bar a groan.
A' his care, wis his car!
Nae thoughtfulness had he -
'I'll sue you; I'll do you! '
As Rock's warm blood ran free....

Sad noo he's gang an' is nae mair,
An' though I've no' a wisp o hair,
I fondly reminisce:
My mind's ee sees my fond frien' Rock,
His cheery smile as we did walk
Enjoyin' life's ain bliss.
He'd scatter thru some tattie shaws -
He'd sprint aff up the hill;
He'd skid on gravel wi' his paws -
He'd show aff wi sic skill:
Life wis glee; him an' me,
Ran wild across the sand;
My treasure - his pleasure!
'Come Rock! Up tae ma hand! '.....

Topic(s) of this poem: pets

Form: Epistle

Poet's Notes about The Poem

The author's pet labrador which was killed by a car driver

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Poem Submitted: Sunday, February 15, 2015

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