Saturday, November 8, 2014

Ethel Jane (poem)


 
a peculiar shape at the edge of the field
silent, unmoving, but for a lift of its hand
the scent unfamiliar, a danger alert
a nip at my heel, then the leash in her teeth
a punch in the chest and a bite on the chin
pushing me onward, away from this fear
until safe once again under cover of wood,
she falls into step at my side.
she is my shepherd and I am her sheep

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