Archive for November 22nd, 2017

Wednesday, 22 November 2017

The Dog Itself by Helen Farish

Memory rounds this up, breathless,
like the dog herding sheep
below the bedroom window:

dropped at my feet are smells –
wool in the rain, my aunt’s
cigarette smoked on the hoof,

gorse also, firs making green
(and what it all means,
that too has a smell).

Not forgetting the dog itself,
so pleased with its work,
I must pen it in quick.


Date: 2016

By: Helen Farish (1962- )