Some days, blue hugs the middle of the road.
He’s unsure if its night or day.
His ears let him down,
But instinct rules enough to keep him safe.
The tractor sneaks up, the gate’s padlocked.
Places thick with his scent.
Soon, he will go to the open gate in the meadow,
Then to the purple hills and his kennel under the oaks
                        Back door of the sun.

© Jenny Barnard

Peter Macrow,
Tasmanian Times Poetry Editor.
Tasmanian poets or those with a Tasmanian link are invited to send up to 5 poems which have not appeared previously in print or electronic media to:
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For the complete collection, click here: Poetry, Peter Macrow

Jenny Barnard

Since blue’s folks moved house,
Everyday at noon or thereabouts,
He squats outside her cyclone gates, the neighbour.
              Her stroking hand ruffs his fur,
Her smell is roses, damp hay, apple orchards,
Buddha birdbath heavy in petunias,
Dew glistened scarlet peonies, rain soaked grass,
Rain forest dreams,
                  Bowls of rich beef broth and meaty bones.