He treads the same ground at my side
Keeps my feet on the path when I stumble
And drops to the floor when I stop
Shows the way with his black bottom
Hooks my bag when out of reach
Tells people I need to sit
His French pedigree delights passers by
He spies holes in the tarmac,
pushes strangers out of my path
He finds shimmering shells dug into sand,
as I slip in the sea when the tide trickles out
But rescues me when I resurface
I slide my hands down his shiny brown coat
Let him rest in the warmth,
while chair backs and rails do his work
No comments:
Post a Comment