The Shy Dog

The shy dog will only come to me,
to a female voice.
The vet says it's all down to the kennels,
her handler.
My fingers explore the small ridges of her skull
and we are shifting into a landscape of grasses,
moving with the tribe.
Or, I am very young again
and curled up in the attic
reading Henry Treece;
travelling for days with the men,
never leaving my bed.
The Icini queen burns London, Colchester, Verlamion
and claims the hero with swinging plait and blue skin,
her palm warm on his thigh.
Later, I tried this move with a boyfriend
but he didn't, like the hound, take me for a natural leader.
Then again, I never wove any spells into his hair.
At least this…
My son, who is currently berserker,
would have some place out beyond the dog,
a forward scout,
crazy enough to take the necessary risks.
And I think too of my father's death.
How removed we are from that fierce place
excepting the Discovery Channel.
I wanted a bier, fire.
I wanted to decorate with gold teeth, spoils
he told me to claim at the end
With the shy dog,
watchful for my next command,
maybe I could have just done that.