Snow in Beckenham Park with Harry the Dog

Harry scribes his fine black line
on this unsullied, sight defined and
swallowing page.
Almost beyond seeing
he scratches out and starts again,
drawn by something I nor know nor
do not know. And every now and
then, when fancy takes him, he’ll
look my way as if to check that yes
he has me still at beck and call,
not going anywhere, just trudging on.
Sometimes I’ll whistle, or shout, or
wave a treat. Sometimes he’ll sit there,
lie there, chewing on a stick, and then
leap up and disappear into
the woods, away. And sometimes, as I
tramp the fields, I’ll feel his wet nose at my
hand, crept from somewhere, almost
without sound, reminding me that
I belong to him.
But now, in blinding snow
my eyes screwed up against
the glare, I call him and
from other side the world
I see him bunch and stretch.
From out of thought in
less time than it takes to heave
a breath he’s here, as the
weeks when he seemed deaf
do not exist, and all he wants
is trotting at my side.