The Writers Voice
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The day, now
wrapped and ribboned,
Consigned to subconscious files.
To be opened on occasions,
When maybe all is not too well
And the search is on, for smiles.
Floppy, felt hat shaded Jacob
From the heat of the falling Sun.
Fishing since early morning,
Catching nothing but inner calm.
He'd be here until day was done.
'Hey Jacob, my man, what's in the net?'
Jacob turned, squinting into brightness,
'Is that you, Dog?' 'Sure it's me!'
'Dog, slide away 'cos today's lonesome day.'
Dog sat down, with unwanted politeness.
Dog fished in his sack, caught a four pack.
Pulled a ring, placed a can in Jacob's hand.
'Dog, there's zilch in the net. How's Wendy?'
Wendy, (Dog's woman), left him years ago,
With his brother, to some foreign land.
Jacob and Dog sat side by side.
The Sun fell further, sparse words spilt.
Where line pierced river, slight commotion,
Ripples, movement, slight tug on line and rod.
Crescendo! And why this day was built.
Dog hugged Jacob as Jacob reeled in,
'Dog leave me be, is my fish, is my day.'
'They've had a kid, a boy - guess I'm an Uncle.'
'So Wendy must be restin' an' a' cradlin''
Jacob threw back the trout - there was nothing left
Jacob opened this special day today,
As he buried his son, Dog, in the rain.
Doug on the gravestone but Dog in his heart.
Dog died from heartache but no one else knows.
Dog displayed love and hid all his pain.
Wendy named the boy Jack, (after Jack Russell?),
Jacob liked to think so, of course.
Dog was a simple but good boy,
Knew 'uncomplicated' led to good life.
The hand of dirt thrown spewed sadness, remorse.
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