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
