Best Naturedog Poems
Moon In Auburn
As the stars were heaped upon a mantles Shangri-La
The miniature toy town beneath its cape
Quiet hung in yellow golden windows lit
So silent in the dales and woods blanket
The dog fox cry echoed from the moon
Crisp and cloudless chill less coldness
With the twin of the moon fluxed silver blue
In the tiny handmaidens mirror of reflection
Natures dark slept beneath the shadows of her hand
And she crept in dreams
Within the tip toe of cats
Rendered the night through amber eyes
Glistening on the turns of lovers kisses
For all the endless that she misses
Arched above an eternal sky
She is drawn to the moss of rocks
And clings in branches hung with lichen
To the feathered damp of leaves
Which catch her spark
Just a whisper footfalls breezes shifter
In the country lanes of ancient mazes
By stone wall and rabbits foot
Close upon the dandelions head
With all the disguised colours leaping on unseen acoustics
Were hidden amongst rivulet beds
Catching the silver blue
The dog fox cry echoed from the moon
And swung out the flax upon the stars
Fingers traced their destiny within those pinpoint suns
A pattern constellation traits of has; she was born
The atonement of steady reckoning he had
Cut in trough on the ploughed earth
Where all the seeds of tomorrow had been scattered
With all their promises of a seasons ripening
Old songs sung of proud man “John Barleycorn”
And the distillation of his bone and marrow
And while the stars piled high on their Shangri-La
Recounted the lost tales of lovers in forgotten times
All the memories fell in auburn locks
And swept upon the Luna light shores
The twin she fluxed in silver blue
And the dog fox cry echoed from the moon
The air is crisp, cold weather
that you can sink your teeth into.
It's midwinter with a brief break
between rainy weather fronts.
My fat limping dog and I have
got to get out of the house and
find some wildness.
He lets me know of his happiness
and I ignore his comment about hypocrites
as I put his leash on and
he drags me down the trail.
"How will we ever find wildness
under these conditions?"
he barks at me.
"Maybe this time boss?
Maybe this time you will let go?"
We walk down the trail by
the storm swollen stream and
hear the same question posed in the air.
The storm stream tries hard to break free
and wreck havoc, but,
the well engineered cement banks
give it nothing to grab hold of and it
careens on past to the sea, harmlessly.
The river's only hope to spread wildness
is another storm to raise its banks.
The grass above the banks is all of a kind,
easily mowed, and no threat to the asphalt
path we walk.
There is some hope of wildness
in the windblown debris
left over from the storm.
Perhaps seeds of a hardier folk
will move in among the grasses and
the perfect line of trees
that border the trail.
Such strangers will have to hide
and take cover before the caretakers
of the trail arrive tomorrow.
They will efficiently find all wildness
from the storm and make sure that
it is all discarded and hauled to the dump.
Perhaps I am looking for nature
in all the wrong places.
Here it has been collared and leashed
and rendered docile.
Still it fights back.
My hopeful dog directs my attention to the stream
and points to an otter that sinks when I look.
"Maybe this time, boss?" he implores.
Overhead, three noisy geese, free as you please,
as insolent as if they were twenty,
announce their imminent landing
at the county water control pond.
Not all of us are on a leash yet.
On a cold winter’s morning
in the Wicklow mountains
a lone man stalks the land;
his hound shadows him.
He moves silently, swiftly,
approaching a clearing
where the pine forest gives way
to heather-covered hills.
Alert to movement,
he steps carefully into position.
His dog stands stock still, waiting;
its nose quivers
in the icy air.
He slips the rifle from his shoulder
moving to a tree
bare of branches.
Carefully he pulls the trigger,
the dog darts forward.
Dragging the carcass of a Sika
he walks through a forest
stripped of bark.
Trunks ooze with infection;
the reason for the cull.
He hears gunfire ahead.
‘Could be poachers.’
He investigates.
Poachers are the true vermin
in this environment.
They kill for money,
no respect for the species.
Stags beheaded, bodies remain,
inexperienced hunters,
the wounded animals suffer.
An animal lover,
he lives a solitary life
at his isolated cottage.
Keeper of the deer
deep within the mountains.