Bracken on one side of
the bank
tall grass and reeds on
the other
next to the
water-washed sandstone edge
of the Birmingham
canal. The towpath,
dry with summer's dust,
stretches on,
distant trees occluding
the horizon
and Eddie Gee's white
and green farm shed
dominating the field
beyond overhanging
aspen and willow. My
hoarse shouts as he ran,
fur flying, an easy
lope speeding faster,
my tiny legs pumping,
pumping
as if a life depends on
it. The last, lung-bursting cry
before the stitch and
the burning muscles
slow me to a crawl, a
stop.
My voice hoarse.
The last flash of a
black and white tail
as our collie darts
between two trees and is gone.
Two decades later, our
father's funeral and you let slip
“when we had
Laddie put down...”
and my voice goes
hoarse with the memory of that run.
“I always thought he
ran away.”
© Rachel Green 6th January 2016
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