A Man and His Dog
A Man and His Dog
His step, though slow, determined still.
He’s older now less strength than will.
His hair is white upon his brow
as time, the thief, her gifts endow.
He stops beside a running stream
to rest awhile, to sit and dream
upon a rough cut beech wood log,
And by his feet his faithful dog.
The dog’s old too, with muzzle grey,
No more the pup to run and play.
She lies content in gentle sun
Her master near, her work now done.
I watch them from my window high,
And feel a loss, a stab of pain.
I firmly fix in my mind’s eye
this peaceful scene, to watch again.
Copyright © Margaret Foster | Year Posted 2010
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