| Off she went
Six poems in memory of Irene (and Pingle) 1 She walked the dog. The day pealed off a life and so the dog died. A few years sailed past, quite a breeze, getting wet, wet, ropes pulling calluses, cuts, bruises, till death caught another sail in the wind. Off she went, over the fence, to where she and dog met, where they walk now, somehow forever. How can it be? Or is it this green field inside my head, where I see them walk now and then? |