Corgi's Dad
He cuts a dapper figure
against the
frost-pocked pavement
amidst the gay detritus
of post-Christmas
dustbin collection
(We're allowed to leave
an extra bag
of 'festive waste' next
to the bin.)
Two dogs on leads, an
old corgi
moving slow as a
Brussels sprout on a child's fork
and a feisty Parson's
terrier, full of the joy
of Christmas morning,
even though it's
Wednesday already
and time for the
end-of-year best-ofs on the telly.
His polished brogues
cut a swathe
through newly minted
ice crystals,
his stick a polished
meter of time-hewn yew.
A fifties Mackintosh
over a tweed three-piece
collar and tie,
naturally,
though as a nod to the
new century
he walks without a hat,
the polished gleam of
his pate
blinding in the early
sun.
He greets the old lady
at sixty-eight,
nods to the goddess
from seventy,
who looks younger now
than she did twelve years ago,
moves with the opposite
of haste
a widdershins
circumambulation
of a litter-strewn the
street.
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