Her Afghan hound
Is straining at the leash.
Her hair is plastered down,
Mirroring the bedraggled coat
Of her unruly pet
Who, skittish in the wind,
Pulls at the lead
And turns her full circle.
Pink umbrella catches my eye,
Twirling her round
And transforming her
Into an awkward marionette,
Pirouetting on the pavement,
As the rain pours steadily down.
A stylish pair they make,
Even in the rain.
Old man walks past my window,
A comical figure,
Full of pathos, with
A small cigar protruding from his lips,
Intent on his daily jaunt,
His constitutional,
And the small, brown dog
Trotting along beside him.
He looks straight ahead
And mutters a gruff ‘good evening’,
Tamed after years
Of my persistent attempts
To draw this neighbour of mine
Into conversation.
But his best friend of all
Already walks beside him.
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