Like this:

Frosty, frail faced, frontman

facing the one foe neither

he nor I can out-front.

Grown gaunt now, stone deaf, once,

whistled, he’d meet me, old

undergrowth – crasher, bursting

out, tougue lolling, teeth grinning

“Hah – hah” by the truck.

Once, when I’d say.  Walk?”

the room couldn’t contain him.

He knows my mind, mood.

Before I reach for , lace up

my boots, he’s on.  When some

vociferous, cottaged cur

rushes out, his cold dangerous

disdain says, ” Earn your scars. “

His penetrating pools of eyes

out – stare me.  He walks me out

of my shack, prisoned self.

Brings me to a reach of the lake,

glittering, gold, beyond dark,

deep green she – oaks, as though

he knew my need, medicine:

a music flowing into silence.

Only last night, under stars

I could have plucked from the leaves,

the reach, arch, stream,

of nebulae over the bush

from rim to rim, was his leap

into my life.  Now fore paws on

the back of the station – wagon,

he cons me: “Help me in.”

“Roland Robinson”

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