Two of them
running golden throu the stubble,
by sunlight, so that only crackling
marks their progress.
her nose gundog sharp: the pup
her hurtling energy and mine,
“Is it really okay?” She glances
me-ward as they disappear
in lazy sunlight over a contour
of the field. Perfect weather.
The distant hum of harvesting.
A toy train threading a stripy needle
throu the dense woods opposite.
Birdsong flooding back in behind it.
the dogs rebound breathless and anxious;
crackling gets louder
until they're jumping up and licking.
Forbidden of course!
Time outside time, summer’s nostalgia
not yet turned bitter:
Is this how it’s always been