His Master’s Voice has gone

Dogs do not understand goodbye

He watches waits and grieves

Why do the women cry?

A War Dog has a focus

Love dictates the choice

The wailing shells surround him.

His world, His Master’s Voice

He did not care to understand

Why humans kill or play

Be it German, French or English

His Master’s Voice his day

Evading deadly Allied Bullets

On German Voice command

A precious load strapped to his back

He skims the mire of No Man’s Land

Blue runs with army orders now

There are no sheep or cattle

Blue only hears His Anzac’s Voice

Above the roar of battle

A Red Cross Dog saves lives

Aiding those who still draw breath

The Stretcher Bearer’s Voice

Braves the screaming stench of death

Flanders fields are still blood red

Killing is still glorified

Men and dogs are still at war

Will we ever turn the tide?

My cavoodle was very sad today,

She couldn’t go out and play.

I tried to explain

It was due to the rain,

But her face was full of dismay.

Inside the pocket of my shorts it’s dark and not too clean,
But you might just decipher the colours red and green.
There’s a length of string that’s red or faded nearly pink
A piece of a tangelo skin that’s sweeter than you think
A dandelion head there is, that’s rather sad and squashed
A blade of grass that’s all green now but changes when it’s washed
A toffee wrapper, blue as blue, that’s sticky-d up the dark
As well a stone of purplish-grey I found when in the park.
Rainbow colours but oh no, not the rainbow with its glow
Far too dirty, far too dank, it all needs cleaning to be frank.

Hard edges, cooling to the touch. I take it out and rub it clean
Angled just right toward the sun, its transparency is seen
In coloured bands breaks up the light,
and then stream through the colours bright
A wondrous pleasure to bestow
the prism bears its own rainbow.

Virginia Lowe