I wrote about a beautifully put together episode by Richard Osman in his latest book earlier this week. It inspired me to write Snowy.
Snowy
Snowy didn’t come last night,
with russet red fur and shining tips of white,
missed him, with his evening greeting,
the glass separated, after dinner meeting,
told what’s her name, my dear devoted wife,
I think no trouble or strife.
Out in the garden with what’s his name,
he took me in the car again,
one of Elizabeth’s projects,
looking for Snowy the object,
found him stiff beneath the snow,
beyond cold but where did we go?
I think we went to see my old mate,
what’s his name but we were too late,
we should dig Snowy a deep grave,
to deter predators his body to save,
I’ll miss the evening through the window talks,
we need to resume our romantic walks.
I wrote that long reflective letter,
a daily reminder to make me better,
breaks camouflage with white ear tips,
the relief of words from her lips,
the frozen land was hard to break,
for Snowy’s place a final rest to take.
The world turning while I am still,
but the size of the disconnect bodes ill,
sorry for the trouble I’m causing,
when we signed, this I wasn’t promising,
perhaps now that Snowy is at rest,
she can only hope for the best.
© David L Atkinson January 2024
No comments:
Post a Comment