Mustard Tree

Paddy's done his normal trick,

given my face a long, hard lick

and legged it.

From a mad wet pup he was away to the bins

or the kids on the swings

or Mrs Nichol's boss-eyed pug wafting her love round the houses

and Paddy towering over her

wagging hard and ready for anything.

Or the pub

where daft blokes gave him ale

and shouted Get home lad, yer under age, ha ha.

And then he'd sleep

toddling home in the midnight

whimpering and smelling of dug drains.

He might come, if you shouted loud and the wind was right.

He might.

The trips got grander as he grew

from smaller town to bigger town,

the soul of a poet

with the head of a clown.

But now he's done it.

Gone to Istanbul it seems

one day when the wind changed.

Some sassy Turkish bitch, no doubt,

but the art and the culture really do stand out.

So we'll still adore him, and him us

when he wanders back this way.

But we've a labrador now too

in case we never see that day.