Skittish, she flees
at the first tremble of thunder,
the first flashing of eyes,
long gone before teeth are bared.
But it is not for a dog to complain
over what needs chasing
just to find the way home.
White tufts blowing in the bracken
and two-toed prints show
where she was, before
the storm was so fierce.
The grass is glistening in the rain,
just as sweet as sugarsnap peas,
a new green cemetery of names
that are not yet forgiven.
There’s a bleating, somewhere
in these echoing hills,
like a child in dark wilderness,
but the wind snatches all away.
© Deanna Scutt, 2018