Orienteering for a Blind Dog

In place of a map, there’s the tip
of your nose pressed into the cradle
of my thumb and forefinger.

For your compass, the rustle
of my boots in long grass, the crunch
of pine cones, the tap of my heels

on hard ground, our secret whistle
that tells you when to stop, when to go,
and my voice that warns of a low wall,

or a gap in the fence too small for you to pass through.

Pheasants too clumsy to fly, the neighbour’s cat, are

reduced to distant

memory, a passing scent that makes you
raise your head, lift a paw to give chase.
How I’d love to remind you

of the splash and surprise of a river swim,
the mystery of rubber balls that float,
the wild hunt for a Frisbee

in an un-mown field, when you check
the wind for the time of day, turn for
home, ready for food, the high point

of your life. Give a dog your heart to tear apart,
said Kipling, and he knew, so I’m
left with the puzzle of your docile

acceptance of what I with two-legs and
a much bigger brain, find so deeply
unacceptable; the proof

of that tired old adage—what the eye
doesn’t see-- the way the heart’s
not meant to grieve over it.

3rd Prize Ver Poets Competition 2011