Tag: writing

By Oliver Cocks

We sit with our scruffy woofer
A lovely puppy

Its choc fudge eyes widen at us,
and it shakes its tail, and gently licks us

Light twinkles from our wedding rings,
as we pat him so many times

We sit in a park, kissing now and then,
fitting hands together, and often beaming
at our eyes, and his eyes

He is our sole child

Near us, there are children,
who play many kinds of games,
as grownups watch them, smiling,
or talk to fellow grownups,
amid trees, grass, and a playground

We wept before

Our friend’s dad farewelled his body,
to soar to his new home,
a month before, and our friend
has sobbed and sighed every day since

Both our parents still dwell on this globe

We can only ponder
what’s it’s like for our kind friend

Who’s laughed alongside us,
since we first linked at university,
who came to our wedding,
a year before, and never fusses
when we’re late, every catch-up

Who stood close to us when
we brought home our pup,
after we paid for him, small and bald

We saw him, penned in the pet store,
and there was no other possibility

We both know how killing
this is for our friend, who sobbed
and shuddered, when we went
go-karting the other day

He first ceased to speak at all,
then did, but only murmurs

And we both know, as we gaze,
at our eyes, and at our baby

We arrive at our friend’s small home,
only ten minutes following

We must invite him to play
with our scruffy child

We’ll whisk him to the park,
at least thrice a week,
let him join our outings,
help him deepen his bond
with our loyal child

Only he can let himself revive,
but this will be the needed love,
the light that will show him the road back

We’ll admit him into our family,
and resurrect him with our child’s care,
with our puppy’s heartfelt woofs

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