Rose McLarney
A man who was not to be trusted
once owned the hound. Don’t I know
the kind. But I won’t walk the way
the stray dog does,
head down, side-stepping, skitter.
He’s pulled taut, fear hauling against
his troublesome tendency
towards faithfulness.
Yes, he runs the ridges and feeds himself.
His feet are fast, his teeth sharp.
But what I watch is how he stops to pluck
sweet blackberries.
Hound on the hill,
sun-warm fruit in the hound.
There is a tenderness that persists.
When he bays above us,
a longing song, let me turn
to take a new man’s arm.
