Remembering the first dog

Remembering the first dog

We walked, the dogs and I,
through green wet and fissured clay,
fox-dug and earth heaps scattered,

through the upright brown compost
of chicory, twigs broken from oak
and ash, and the chatter of jays.

We followed tracks and prints
and smelly signs and stopped
a moment at the grave’s edge,
where rose cuttings thrive.

Small hoof-prints pattern
the soft earth, and rabbits have left him
their jet-shiny beads,

and I am pleased
he has the company.
Memories are real.