Dog Whispers

(i)

 

 

The lean black dog -

a tail sharp and thin,

a snout like an oyster

 

 

wet, black, pulled

from the very depths of

his soul.

 

 

It stopped by the quayside,

bared angry teeth, and said:

“I know what you are”

 

 

whispered it clear

and concise as the bark

of a long forgotten bell.

 

 

It was hard to comprehend

and his day

was not the same.

 

 

A dog that speaks! A dog with yellow eyes,  

paw-pads hard, gnarled -

silent the way it crept up on him.

 

 

He turned as one frightened

and in danger. The lean black

dog disappeared.

 

 

(ii)

 

 

The soft-dog of my childhood -

brown with flecks of

white upon his chest,

 

 

loving too the way

he spread his warm pink belly

across my young feet.

 

 

The most loyal of companions

we shared a secret world

of gestures, whispers,

 

 

the scented woodlands

that we ran, the ponds and lakes

where we slept like kings,

 

 

the hillocks upon which we sat

admiring dogs that

passed our way.

 

 

His warm, honest tail -

it gave an

exuberant

 

 

extravagant greeting -

not sharp, not black

not angry, not thin.

 

 

 

(iii)

 

 

I remember the dog-house in our

town - the concertinaed

doors and spotless drapes.

 

 

It hid a lethal chamber.

The animals that were

brought - I watched them arrive:

 

 

frail and not so frail,

stroked and not so stroked,

the clean

 

 

smell of destruction

obstructed by

potted ferns

 

 

and bright gladioli

that my dog would sniff

were he not

 

 

bound so tight. Piled up

out back - dozens

of them sleeping sound,

 

 

their tails at rest,

fur and eyes glistening

only collars and name tags

 

 

remain. Where do they go ?

I said. Their dog-souls, you said,

roam the ocean of our dreams.

 

 

(iv)

 

 

A dog that speaks - the idea

disturbs him. He stands

on the beach

 

 

casting stones at the

water. It will not

be seen again.

 

 

It was not made to return.

It has done its dirty work,

bared its angry teeth.

 

 

He wishes to embrace the dog.

He wishes to speak to it,

stroke its angry brow.

 

 

He sleeps and follows a ghost-dog along

cobbled streets, past fishermen and draymen,

butchers and surveyors,

 

avoiding discarded remnants,

faces from the past.

"Where will you lead me ?

 

 

Why have you returned ?"

This dog's eyes are white, not yellow.

The tail neither sharp or thin.

 

 

Now the face is brown, its

chest speckled red and grey.

It snarls, it whimpers

 

 

old as it is, bares rotten teeth.

This dog of his dreams

cannot speak.