Watching Two White Dogs

There he flits through oiled daylight,

across black hills, down deep raw paths.

He roams his veil of linen cloth,

then stops, surveys to sniff

her out.

His eyes sink - striving down towards

where once his purple collared wife

had rested, waiting foolishly,

in hope their paint will bleed.

Sunset haunts her traveller.

His detailed ribs exert themselves

and make his paws proceed.

His floppy ears are not deceived!

The husband strands,

I see him grieve.

They hang apart:

express their calm

belief.