Friday 15 July 2022

For Archie, a poem.



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.

 

 





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