Once, we walked there
through the dappled hush,
your silent paws padding across
generations of soft, damp leaves,
the taste of rain on our tongues.

You followed your keen black nose
into a universe of scents beyond my reach;
no mouse or rabbit escaped your notice
but you never killed. Well, not unless
we include that banana.

That day you stole someone’s fruit
just as they were poised to take a bite,
a small act of chaos among the sylvan calm.
The stranger’s startled shout,
and you enjoying your purloined treat in one swift swallow,
tail high, proud of your crime: the prince of rascals.
Luckily, their sense of humour matched your mischief.

Now memory lies heavy on those shadowed paths.
If I went back to Linford Wood, I’d listen for
the crackling of twigs as you delved into undergrowth.
I’d wait in vain
for your golden curly coat and its black jacket
to flash between the trees.

Each track recalls your boundless curiosity,
each fallen leaf your artful dance of devilry.
You are everywhere in that wood.

Yet nowhere now.

I cannot return to Linford Wood without you.