Oscar Wilde

How can I write
without sentimentality
about my dog?
All I’ll say is this:
there were twenty minutes
on a winter afternoon

when I came back from the shower
and found you lying in a rare patch of sunlight
by an upstairs window.
And exhausted already
by all I had done
and all that was yet to do

I looked on your moment to moment
existence with envy.
I looked at your patch of sunlight
and you, blue black,
sinking into the charcoal weave
And I stretched out next to you.

Your head came home into the crook of my arm
and we slept together
soundlessly.
I’d like a life sentence
but I got twenty minutes with you
I’ll make them count.

© Kathryn Davies, March 2020