A Poem a Day (571): I saw a man walking four dogs

 
I saw a man walking four dogs
 
The March air is damp with expectation.
You can smell the green, the woody bark,
the mix of flora, fumes and breath,
becoming headier before it arrives,
this drizzle, sliding down in a thin stream,
an invisible drummer on paving stones.
 
He walks four dogs, this wiry man,
back stooping, flat cap reflecting the rain.
Neatly, they walk in file behind him,
tails swaying to and fro to a distant beat,
paws padding in time, as though listening
to a doggy tune only they can hear.
 
Leather leads dangle, trail on the ground,
but the dogs don’t try to drag them away.
There is no hurry here, no impatience.
It’s a Sunday jaunt, a time-travel déjà vu –
they’ve done this walk day-in, day-out,
twice a day, three if they’re in luck.
 
Come rain or come grey, snow or fine,
from house to park they walk this line
and back again, but it’s never the same.
The dogs recognise some steps and voices,
can hear them coming around the block,
yet there’s always something new.
 
The old man is silent, lost in a daydream
of the partner he used to share this with,
the route ingrained in his memory.
He loves the habit of it, the empathy.
From a distance they form a unit,
a furry, eighteen-legged family.

Copyright Vickie Johnstone, March 24, 2023