Where I Go Walking the Dog
Rain-high or dry-low in one way,
gin-clear, freshwater flow
beneath the weir, a timbrel fall
masks noise from the traffic stream
between town and country
where back and forth circulation
travels arterial routes .
On a mound risen in the river,
rock and pebble-fringed,
an angler stands, teasing trout,
casting his line, soundless. He nods.
I smile. We share a rural hello
a silent ‘what about ye’
spoken through the eyes.
My dog wags its tail
sniffs weeds, chews grass, snuffles
through the undergrowth
and rustles fallen leaves.
He cocks a leg and squirts
another important communique.
Off-lead, Stumpy investigates
sheep, horses, rabbits and frogs,
en route – sproings tussocks,
bounds puddles, looks baffled
but happy, zig-zags his trail
and covers twice the distance I walk.
We follow the light-dappled path
upstream, past a goat and a white horse,
the field of cows below the big house
where colonnades of broadleaved trees
complement coppiced beech hedgerows.
Alongside, tangled blackberry brambles,
white flowered wild garlic,
candled horse-chestnuts
and rotting tree trunks with fungus outcrops
refute a tamed wilderness.
And so, for half an hour we stroll the Braid
him excited, me at peace, elated,
invigorated and faith restored
in nature, if not humanity.
