Laddie

Bracken on one side of the bank

tall grass and reeds on the other

next to the water-washed sandstone edge

of the Birmingham canal. The towpath,

dry with summer's dust, stretches on,

distant trees occluding the horizon

and Eddie Gee's white and green farm shed

dominating the field beyond overhanging

aspen and willow. My hoarse shouts as he ran,

fur flying, an easy lope speeding faster,

my tiny legs pumping, pumping

as if a life depends on it. The last, lung-bursting cry

before the stitch and the burning muscles

slow me to a crawl, a stop.

My voice hoarse.

The last flash of a black and white tail

as our collie darts between two trees and is gone.

Two decades later, our father's funeral and you let slip

“when we had Laddie put down...”

and my voice goes hoarse with the memory of that run.

“I always thought he ran away.”

© Rachel Green 6th January 2016