rickmitten

Here are two poems i found in my sketch book from last year..

Under bent backs.
On a bended knee.
Left for his own,
Drowned in a creek.
Grew up on his own.
Onky a small dog for company.
Never took a wife
Married to his craft.
Bent over sheep
Had a weathered face
Had the softest hands.
Had noone to help him up.
Fell on a single rock,
Faltered in his step.
Floated until now.
Hit his head.
Died in grace.






Now his dog still sits on the bank,
Waiting for his only friend to come home.

Never left the town
He felt safer on his own
The quiet of the bush sent him to sleep at night.

And every day they'd work
And every day he'd talk,
Not wanting a reply..
The only answer he ever needed was a look in the eye.

He had the softest hands

And on the hot days, he'd swim across the creek.
To the other side.
His little mate would just sit and watch,
Like a sentinel carved from stone waiting in patience.
He would swim with broad, steady strokes.
A pat on the scruff and a rough of the collar.

He never needed a collar
He had nowhere else he wanted to be.

Two mates.