His Hound

Un animal est un être vivant doué de sensibilité et pas un jouet.


His Hound

The great grey hound lies at my feet,
Bewhiskered face on massive paws,
Ebony eyes neath tousled brows,
The great grey hound lies at my feet,
And waits.

While I sit in my chair the times ticks by,
The firelit eyes reflect the soul
Of lineage ancient and heritage wise,
With patience and strength and absolute dignity,
He waits.

Storm tears the sky, dark gathers close,
The sheepdogs stir with anxious gaze
Disturbed by the hammer of rain on glass.
Still the noble hound, his head in repose,
Just waits.

Sounds in the distance grow steadily nearer,
Under the brows the dark eyes light up,
Tail slowly straightens, tip trembles slightly,
Graceful neck arches, yet he does nothing,
But waits.

Windows are lit with the long wished for headlamps,
Eyes on the door he lifts to his feet,
With self assured grace he pads to the doorway,
And welcomes the one who comes through,
For whom he waits.

Poem by © Lynn Shawcroft.

Drawing by © Lisa Brack,
Southern Highlands,
NSW Australia.

Irish Wolfhound Magazine,
Issue 94, Spring/Summer 1998.