As Clean as a Whistle
As Clean as a Whistle
The park is a dance of colour
as leaves pirouette and waltz
around brazen, undressed trees.
November, and the sun sits weakly
even rather streakily in the sky
while I fold myself quietly
into this soothing, autumnal scene.
BUT….. a shock of a screeching whistle announces
the arrival of Miss Bossy-Glossy Wellington Boots
and her thigh-high energetic, pointer dog.
Another screech of whistle and the dog is off,
a blur of fur becomes a flash of white-spotted lightning
until in full flight, it is yanked and cranked back
by the whistle’s invisible, authoritative lead.
Dismayed, the dog pants waggingly and saggingly back
to prostate itself at the feet of Miss Wellington’s boots,
ears flick pointedly, eyes widen purposefully….
Ironically not the dog’s but Miss Wellington Boots
who is ready for another controlled blast!
The pointer is attentive for attention
swiveling swiftly to point in the anticipated direction
while the park stands on tiptoes and holds its breath
awaiting the whistle’s next command
and the start of test two - the park sprint!
The whistle is raised, the tin mouth yelps
and the pointer rockets forward; Usain Bolt on four legs.
It arrows one side of the park
as if shot from the bow of Eros himself.
BUT…. instead of veering left in obedience
it suddenly, as if on rails, keeps tracking straight,
undeviatingly towards the waiting woods
which like some secret, woody accomplice,
opens its foliage with a sleight of trees
and the pointer, the trainee disappointer, swiftly disappears.
The whistle squeals, Miss Wellington’s boots click
until the whistle jumps up to a pointless, pleading shriek
but the dog has well and truly vamoosed even skedaddled!
The whistle is now replaced by Miss Wellington’s vicious voice
that screeches and screams, “Dog, heel! DOG, WHEEL!!”
Sadly my park’s peacefulness has long since
been breached and detonated,
so I straighten out my deckchair of a body
and leave through my secret woodland path
stitching my way carefully through the evergreen greenery.
Unfortunately, Miss W’s viperous voice flicks after me
as it can be heard probing and searching
amongst the trembling leaves and tottering trees
for relevant pointers to the dog’s disappearance.
I smile inwardly at the doughty dog’s escape for freedom -
and then a mischievous thought skips wilfully into my head
that, of course, it had all been….
as clean as a whistle!
Ian Souter
Copyright © Ian Souter | Year Posted 2025
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