Somehow old slopey paws
held our universe together:
the beat of her tail on the carpeted floor
called out the rhythm of the day.

First thing in the morning, mouth ajar,
tongue loose and ecstatic she waited
for her pre-breakfast run across sheep filled fields.

Twice daily her circular silver bowl
placed on the mat, the clank of her name tag against it as she tucked in,
nose first, signalling something, the beginning

and the end – familiarity –
like the sound of the sea or
the peak of Pendle
pushing against the grey,
gradually nudging us heavenwards.


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