In gardened lands where apples fell and Newton found his law,
There sits a hound with open gaze and wisdom in its paw.
No creed commands its loyal heart, no scripture fires its bite,
It guards the hearth with silent oaths and sleeps beside us night.
The stranger comes with louder tones, with fire upon his tongue,
Demanding meat be cast aside, and holy phrases sung.
He speaks of peace with dagger sheathed and mercy sharp as steel,
While dogs look on with tilted heads, unsure what wrath they feel.
For dogs will never flay the truth, nor bid their masters kneel;
They’ll chase a ball, not apostates, with instinct clean and real.
No blasphemy inflames their eyes, no satire earns their hate,
They do not build their love on fear, nor mandate heaven’s gate.
Yet still the clerks of modern thought denounce the faithful beast,
As if its gaze condemned the world or summoned up the priest.
They scoff that we should lift the tail above imported lore,
But dogs don't ask us dress in rags or war upon the boar.
A hound will not explode for God, nor scold the Merlot cup,
It doesn’t scour the town for sin, nor string the sinner up.
It will not burn a cartoonist, nor bid the artist bleed,
It only seeks a pat, a place, and never calls it creed.
So let them scorn the loyal hound and praise what bites with pride,
But I shall walk my dog at dusk with leash and love beside.
For in its bark is wisdom’s weight, and in its wag, a grace,
A parable for those who’ve lost the map of time and place.
(By John Shenton)