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Hair Of The Dog

His hair is a wild sea of waves

tall and standing, and wispy wavelets

They rise and fall on a tough chest

and he presses a quivering leg to mine

It is always so: he roams the hills of his dreams,

threading through trees, sniffling in lupins,

racing in the wooded lanes

Now he dreams again, his leg warm,

his mind racing with his heart

It is the comfort of companionship

I feel it as I leave, and I wonder

If he knows I will come back, or just hope

Some days he stares at nothing;

but it is not nothing, surely, but those

who once lay as he does now

They are here, too, seen and unseen,

and they chase in the night: frost tinkling on coats




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