Dogs have barked all night, the puppy
whining in its weaning from nightmare.
In the morning, chores must confront sun
or rain or the more likely mix of both,
and the dogs are running rings around
sheep for the fun of it – unless their instinct is
simply circular. The fells and their stone and
trees and streams have been here forever,
looking down on this domestic day
with the equanimity of knowing balance.
I read your poems in the light and dark of
this one week here, hear again the dogs in
their household dreaming, or the howling
that rounds everything together to a whole.