In Memory of Semiramide Dorking-Dog
27th June, 1994 - 14th May, 2009
When closing down the silent house at night,
I stand there, just about to dim the light,
And see my silly hand reach for the door
To let her in the garden, just once more.
Or reading quietly, or deep in thought,
Is that the old familiar sound my ears have caught?
A gentle touch; her nails upon the tile;
The sound of well loved paws. And then I smile,
Until cruel memory turns the screw;
Reminds me of what my mind already knew.
My mind recalls, yet my poor heart shuns
How I have lost so dear a one; this one.
And then, when in my bed, I see, so briefly see
Her settling for the night; then turns her face to me.
She was the first I saw in morning light;
I, the last one that she saw at night.
My face, the first when she took first breath;
She saw me last, when closed her eyes in death.
If I could see, once more, the sweetest sight:
Her golden eyes reflect another light.
My senses are bereft; won’t understand.
Where is the warmth; her soft breath on my hand;
That magic mixture, the colours in her hair?
My eyes and heart search madly… yet she’s not there.
More by this Author
A fairly lighthearted (though basically bitter) retelling of the history of having a room converted into a bathroom. With no offence meant to men on horses, the builders were a crowd of evil cowboys.
India, 1946. Independence looms. Day in the life of a Chota Sahib. But this young boy doesn’t realise that he is the baby who will be thrown out with the bathwater. He’s Indian, but the wrong colour.
A somewhat less than learned attempt to explain Restless Legs Syndrome and possible ways of diminishing its effects. The writer is a sufferer, yet can describe the condition with some little humour.