Dog For Caitlin
That summer we loved a small black dog
Whose eyes always seemed to
see beyond the immediate –
moving her neck from our stroking
To examine the future-hazed distance.
She lay by the door, always found the shaded places,
the tunnel through the honeysuckle, the trough
under the verandah where coolness pooled
musty, in the old dairy dark.
She would come when we called,
out into the light, her eyes half-closed
her muzzled dusted
and she would let us stroke
– with our sticky child’s hands –
her earth-cooled fur.