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Writings and Witterings

The Dogs’ W-A-L-K

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Napowrimo small

Time for dogs to stroll,
as sun beats through shade in cedar.
Beneath feet, tunnels mole,
while insects follow-my-leader.

The dogs don’t play the game,
they raise an eye, a brow,
‘Don’t care’ they sniff, declaim,
‘it’s too hot anyhow.’

White umbels hum and hover,
an alien craft swoops, dips then towers
above grasses’ itchy pother,
and burdock in full flower.

Rust green spires spring
over yellow tilted shades,
hear bombus choirs sing
over parasol parades.

Echoes heard,
warm summer words,
calls of birds,
dogs doze, droop, demur.

Polly Stretton © 2020

napowrimo #13

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