almost-nightly walk, with little mutt

For the dVerse prompt “take a walk with me“.  

 

I am feeling hostile,
so I don’t ask if anyone wants to come.

Apart from the little mutt of course,
who doesn’t need to be asked
but leaps around me joyously
as soon as I get my shoes.

Outside the sky is hearts-ease hued;
deepening purple over a yellow glow,
so fitting for early spring –
mirroring the small faces shyly peeking up at the daffodils.

There is still enough light to see the shapes of trees
and I watch the little mutt race ahead up the hill
not noticing that I have turned the other way.
Eventually he will realise, and come racing back.

The sound of our footsteps changes,
from soft padding on the bitumen –
the only sealed bit for 10km around –
to the crunch of gravel.

A plane rumbles overhead
on the Canberra to Sydney route.

The scent changes from dusty-sweet wattle
to horse paddock –
saffron scent of hay
to cow manure – warm and pungent.

We are barely through the gate
before the barking starts.

Little mutt races to meet his friend
a lolloping long-haired blond,
smarter than he looks, but still recovering
from the trauma of an electrified cage.

They leap about one another,
all teeth and hair and wagging tails.

N_ waits at the house, her old dog standing guard.
He is now the three-legged patriarch of the pack
and growls at the bouncing youngsters
who are left outside to cavort.

I rarely leave or arrive empty handed –
on this visit I bring dinner
and leave with milk, barely cooled,
and cheese and home-cured olives.

I promise to bring a load of wood,
as winter is coming back for a brief spell.

Full dark by the time gossip is exchanged,
and I take my leave,
calling the little mutt away from his friend.
All three dogs are rescues.

Maybe N_ and I are too.
Maybe everyone is.

The air is cold now, and smells of wet grass
although there has been no rain.

Back up the hill, serenaded by a thousand frogs,
with the milky way stretched above me,
north to south,
with the southern cross at one end.

The milk bottle digs into my hand
but it is too cold now for it to hurt.

We reach the gate,
and there is the familiar jangle as I latch it,
little mutt scooching through
although he could just as easily go underneath.

And there through the trees
are the lights of home.

bovinaphobia

Ginger-mutt growls at the thunder, 
is unphased by fireworks.
He is the fiercest hunter
unafraid of whatever lurks
in the undergrowth. He laughs
at the rooster’s spurs and beak,
but at the sight of the little calf
the bold cattle dog just freaks.

 

Written for the dVerse Monday Quadrille prompt “Bold-ly go” – 44 words including ‘bold’ – about our red heeler cattle dog who is scared of cows. The calf kept following him and he kept hiding behind T1. He’s also scared of llamas, but that’s just sensible. 

0800 27th Dec, vicarious snoozing

0800
Ginger-mutt is caught out, but he sees it is just me and knows there will be no roar of “get off the couch!”. The rules are different before anyone else is up.

bluebells and bell-grass, haibun

December, and the first month of summer is upon us. Walking up the hill is an effort now in the heat. But I stay on the road in the sun, where any snakes are easier to see, rather than walk in the long dry grass or the leaflitter under the trees.

under a lilly-pilly moon

 Under the blood moon

…no, that’s wrong,

Ginger-Mutt doesn’t eat nachos

I made nachos last night with the new red heeler pup, aka the ginger-mutt, staring up at me the whole time and snapping up any scraps I dropped for him. So the d’Verse “spicing it up prompt” seemed very appropriate when I finally time to read it.  The challenge was to include the names of several spices/mixes in a poem.

 

Ginger-mutt looks up, Egyptian eyes beseeching
waiting for manna to fall:
oh oh, those heavenly scraps of beef
disappearing with a snap
into the salt and pepper muzzle.

The air is embroidered with curlicues of scent:
cumin and onions, golden-soft,
and those kohl-rimmed eyes, pleading, are raised again
filled with a desire no less intense for its silence.

But, the beef must go into the pot now
(although perhaps the chef may let fall a little more largesse).

Tomatoes, beans, corn, chilis, brown sugar and a touch of vinegar
and at the last, when the heat is off,
for a balancing touch of bitterness
and a final russet tint to the fragrance:
just a puff of cacao and cinnamon.
Food fit for the gods!

But not, alas, now the cooking is done,
for the ginger-mutt,
who must now make do with food fit for a dog.