The dog’s hair rises in soft waves,
twisting and curling from nose to ear,
tan and grey and flooded with white;
little moustaches – the English gent,
the rangy wind-tossed bushman,
each wave a story, fleck of character.
As he sleeps he twitches, waking
with a fluttering roving brown eye.
And at rest he pushes out a tufty limb;
he seeks warmth and love:
the touch – assurance – we seek.
He lies stretched long and sighs,
a little chest rising and falling,
and with each movement – a flex,
a jerk – those curls rove and mingle
and the little nostrils flutter,