The dog is sick and lies beside me
He doesn't leap to walk but gently
Staggers to his feet, and stumbles; the heat
Of fever makes him slow and shaky.
His eyes look dull, his fur is scruffy,
He trips in the long grass and tiredly
Sits down, he is beat, and accepts defeat;
With animal grace, suffers calmly.
We make our way but he is weary,
And so we move yet very slowly,
We reach the high street and the gardens, neat,
Seem insignificant and petty
In contrast to the grass path, barely
Visible among tall cow parsley,
And the river, fleet at high tide. The deceit,
The way man fools himself is crazy
We turn away from reality,
Pretending we can fight unruly
Nature, in complete denial as we meet
Death, ignore its possibility,
And even when we're shown dignity
As an example, manifestly
Clear, in sweet acceptance of fate we treat
It as a sign that all is happy.