About Juno, A Dog

Her hair is the colour of sun-parched grass In the heat of a drink-thirsty day. Through trenches she wanders - that tractors have made - As the few clouds slip solemnly away.

The earth in the field is fired and cracked

And ploughed as if pummelled by bombs.

The wind whispers “solititude” soft on my ears,

Like a movie-set replica Somme.

It’s sweet in the pastures where wildflowers bloom,

And the banks where the water is low.

And up in the field, dry as a bone, 

Juno pads, through its colourless rows.