Black Dog

In late summer when the skeins are flying I walk on the moors,

Me and my two black dogs

In purple heather he remembers his youth, 

the black grouse with red eyes fly when he comes,  laughing their way in low arc flights

We walk on sandstone tracks where ruts of sand capture fellow travellers' boot prints. 

Diesel the black lab calls to the other black dog. 

Stay clear, leave here, for this our time. 

And the other black dog obeys; gone

We walk each of us in the twilight of our days and the smell of heather honey reminds us of another summer passing.

We pause at a rock, our rock and rest a while, watching as the weather moves across the land.

Clouds cast shadows across green and purple hills, dry stone walls make sharp geometric designs. 

His head resting on my lap with eyes that speak of trust.

But all too soon we start on the path back retracing our steps, all again new. 

Me and my black dog content, whilst the other black dog crouches far far away.