nipping at your ghost
Nipper”
A small dog waits
beside the brass horn,
ears lifted,
body held in that soft readiness
only devotion can teach.
Once a wanderer,
he learned the shape of shelter
in the warmth of a single voice.
Now the room is quiet,
yet he leans
toward the horn’s bright mouth
as though a familiar breath
might rise again
from its painted metal.
Brush in hand,
he works the canvas again,
colours deepening
around the small dog’s frame.
The horn waits, bright at the rim,
and the dog leans toward it,
steady as breath before a word.
Nothing moves in the room
except the faint shift of his ears,
as though some quiet spark
might rise from the metal
and meet him halfway.
.
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