For Kipling, the finest ever dog. The finest of days was the venue The wind took the heat from the day, I walked upon fields that were strangers, But where, as a boy I’d made hay. The scent burrowed deep in my memory, As the past pushed an image to my mind, When over the sound of the breezes, ... I was conscious of hoof beats behind. I turned to where the sound came from, But nothing I saw, only sounds, When out of the ether they cantered, My lifetime of horse’s and hounds. The dogs to my feet all came running, And sniffed at my fingers with care, When out of the pack trotted Kipling , And he laid at my feet a dead hare. The horses all whinnied and whickered, With velveteen coats bay and black, They played and they bucked in the sunlight, And lovingly nudged at my back. My mind was a ball of confusion, How could this possibly be? All my horses and hounds from forever, All neighing and barking with glee. When all of a sudden they urged me, Back down the field where I’d been, And I stared at the figure that lay there, In that Welsh meadow so green. With a dawning realisation, My mortal coil had now ceased, And from all of mans earthly worries, Forevermore, now was released. I followed my friends up the sheep paths, And under the oak on the hill, We all gazed at the valley below us, Its vista so grand yet so still. Now I ride every horse every morning, Jumping ditches and hedges with thrust, While the dog’s course the hare and the rabbit, From first light till way after dusk. But mostly we lie neath the oak tree, As we watch all the living still toil, Content with my friends all around me, While our bodies lie deep neath the soil.
Posted on: Sun, 16 Jun 2013 20:01:10 +0000
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