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.

From: https://www.theguardian.com/books/booksblog/2016/oct/03/poem-of-the-week-the-dog-itself-by-helen-farish

Date: 2016

By: Helen Farish (1962- )

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