I used to dream
of wolfhounds catching sight
and scent of me, sneaking through the Heath at twilight,
running me to ground. It happened, once,
but I am chewed to tatters, in my dreams,
before I find you. I cannot save you.
I cannot save you. I imagine matted fur,
the sound of meat and membranes being torn.
I dream of cremation, punishment, a sick feeling,
a tightness in the chest.
I went running from my father's house, once,
running through the nightblack Heath, once,
raw and ragged, through the bruising damp and dark
to find you, to steal you away.
In the end, I only paced and circled 'round
your father's nightbarred house,
like a cur.
Copyright John D Porter © 1998
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