Those scallywags
Damp and cold with salt
Water, sand
Golden crumbed like the battered fish
Which waits at the end of the trip (I wish.)
Pink tongues lolling in the sun
From the glee of it all
The pant-pant-panting of belly breath
Ribs, smiling as the paws
Pad back and forth and back
And forth; Again!
They cry
And nudge
And hint -
Let there be no end to the tale
As their tales tick-tock like a metronome
Forgetful of home, of full bowls and fire places
Crisps snuck out of hands under pub tables
Stranger scratched with glee;
There
Is
Only
BALL.
And you, who throw it, you glorious
Giver of games.
Such a shame I don't get to play
But then I'd rather watch floppy ears and rising brows
And soft wet quivering nose
Sniffing out ball
Than nothing at all.
Rebecca Rae writes in all manner of ways - from poetry, plays, creative non-fiction and short stories to film and theatre criticism; in 2018 she was shortlisted for the Royal Court Writer's programme and has also taken part in Papatango's Write West scheme and various courses with Literature Works.
