While milking together
my father shouts across the parlour
an idea for my next poem
How about a working collie–
one that’s on its last legs.
I tell him it has been done before.
Unwilling to chase this sentimental stick,
I leave it well alone,
turn away, but feel it lying there
becoming hair and bone
crouching low, resting its arthritic frame
flecked muzzle flat on its front paws.
Lifting itself slowly to its feet
it sniffs out the few short steps to my father
where we both knew it was bound to go..
from Black Cart (Freight Books, 2017) © Jim Carruth 2017, used by permission of the author