For Archie, a poem
There’s a nudging curmudgeonly family favourite with a
cocoa nose, who’s scratched his last, alas.
There’s a king crossed with Westie, springing his
ears to grinding gears in the Islington breeze, in a
cavalier cat chase, always with permission please.
There’s a polite and linguistic savvy Cavvy, a
tennis ball detectorist, with pride of lion style, all
clipper shy and nose-rub altruistic.
There’s a biscuit, in many a secret stash, for those
big old eyes wide, even when ailing, never failing to
prod your affectionate side.
There’s a Cavestie, a hat hater, a protective
dogternal circler of celestial mind, with a
jobsworth badge on his fluffed-up flank, in a
parade of snorefest days, ever-under the impression
that there’s leftovers, always.
There’s a scaredy lad, a workshop snuffler,
on one, for an opportunity, a sawdust sneeze, to
persue some glue-based rapture. There’s a belter, a
heart-melter, perenially photogenic for the capture.
There's a bin-man wannabe, on a channel-hop for
doggy tv, a carrot loving rival to bugs bunny’s plot,
that couldn’t stick for one second that
one of us, he was not.
There’s an island tripping, wet sand skipping
enthusiast for the humankind but to his own, lifted a
nose or a cocked a hind, running in from the
outfield to soundly sleep with those in Sundial time.
There’s a daft old sod, that’s always been, from the
days of Squid’s guiding eye, that has always
invested and bested, however great, or
small our expectations were hidden or aligned.
There’s a mate, an ever-present, from ankle-biter to
sweeper-up smiter, with a bark worse than fighter, a
pure teddy bear, wrong righter, loving listener, a
grumping mini mooching mensch, a
couthy pooch and companion without compare.
Who was, and always will be,
forever just right there.
