Post by KG on May 18, 2018 22:10:15 GMT
HE`S BURIED BY THE GREENHOUSE
He’s buried by the greenhouse - on his grave are flowers,
A family pet was Charlie, the memories are ours,
No more lead hanging down, by the kitchen door,
Or metal bowl of water, waiting on the floor,
No more friendly greeting, wagging of the tail,
Or barking at the postman, delivering the mail,
No more grinding jaw, gnawing bones of pork,
Or spinning in delight, at mention of a walk.
No more resting nose, gently on my knee,
Or limpid shining eyes, gazing up at me,
No more pleasant games, playing with a ball,
Or bounding back toward us, answering his call.
No more wet and smelly, after being in the rain,
Or the look of triumph, when he chased the cat again,
No more country strolls, sniffing round for hours,
He’s buried by the greenhouse now, underneath the flowers.
Joe Earl
He’s buried by the greenhouse - on his grave are flowers,
A family pet was Charlie, the memories are ours,
No more lead hanging down, by the kitchen door,
Or metal bowl of water, waiting on the floor,
No more friendly greeting, wagging of the tail,
Or barking at the postman, delivering the mail,
No more grinding jaw, gnawing bones of pork,
Or spinning in delight, at mention of a walk.
No more resting nose, gently on my knee,
Or limpid shining eyes, gazing up at me,
No more pleasant games, playing with a ball,
Or bounding back toward us, answering his call.
No more wet and smelly, after being in the rain,
Or the look of triumph, when he chased the cat again,
No more country strolls, sniffing round for hours,
He’s buried by the greenhouse now, underneath the flowers.
Joe Earl