What's It Like Up There

SUCCESSOR by MARGARET RHODES This infant dog, folded in honeyed fur, Folded in sleep, paws bunched across her nose, Artlessly sprawls before the winter fire And nuzzles close to us who are her world. Twitching in dreams she lives again the chase, Her tawny body hurled Hilariously across the wind-wracked shore; In dreams scuds after gulls through spume and foam Of teasing tides; perhaps again she hears The thin lost cries of sandpipers in her ears. In sleep she stretches, yawns, begins to stir, The stares with topaz eyes as if she saw The dog who lay last winter in her place. She stares and inches close And offers us a guileless trusting paw, Claiming us for her own - this dog we chose To turn a house once more into a home.   A slightly different blog for August! I apologise for the lateness. At the beginning of the month, we visited the John o' Groats working mill. While the others did the tour, I sat outside in the sunshine and listened and took photographs on my phone. I had a lo...