By Edwin Heath

I believe in you,

You and your dog,

That gasping mongrel you call your ‘hound’.

I believe in his bristly tail,

And your long hair,

And his muffled growl,

And your independent air.

I believe in his eager, saucer-round eyes,

And your modestly unassertive eyes,

Detaching themselves from the things you say.


It seems you actually called on me,

You and your dog;

And we went, as was wont,

For a stroll and a spree:

Wagging and waving,

Barking and shouting,

On paw and on foot …

How you scampered and strode,

And clambered and slipped,

And growled, and cursed

At me, and the sky, and the glorious, horrible,

Dog-lifting, wench-staining mud!


And so I say, I believe in you.

You and your dog:

His strength is your resilience,

His triumph, your success.

Thus did I espy his splodgy coat,

Thus noted I your blue-banded cloche …

His appreciative sniff,

Your agreeable grin,

His spots, your freck’s,

 (What a state they’re in!)

His spots, I mean.   Hmm …

His paws, your hands,

His claws, your toes, 

His bark, your laugh,

His snout, your nose,

His jowls (his jowls?) - 

Your lips, I would suppose …

Oh yes, I do believe in you,

You and your dog.


I believe you actually called, you and your dog,

When the wind was blowing clouds across the sky.

And later on that day the wind howled;

Perhaps your dog did, too.

And later on that night the stars stood out

Like silver freckles on a hidden face;

And I turned over on my pillow,

And the memories of the day woofed at me,

And trotted round me, and splattered me with mud, and tears,

And housing estates, and photographs of the sky,

And the moon pawed its way behind a dark cloud,

And you licked me, or kissed me goodnight.