Why snaps the Crescent kennel loud while Canterbury throws me pies, And swears I dropped from angel clouds with gravy dripping from the skies, I only wag at friend and foe and sniff what any hound has smelt, Yet still they bark I’m heaven’s joke while others say I’m Heaven’s help.

One sister spun the bobbin bright, her song a river through the years, She drew the thread from memory deep, from laughter, frost, and tears.

I knew the world by mother-smell, By milk and fur and breathing near, By warmth that wrapped the dark in calm, And told my heart I belonged here.

I watch the flocks above the hedge and wonder what their motions mean, If feathered tribes might mirror us, in faiths and thoughts both sharp and keen; For nature speaks in riddled signs, in glinting wings and drifting air, And bids us ask what truths are shown in every flight and perch laid bare.

Parliament with it's fetid breath proclaimed our halls must open wide, That Britons feed the wandering hordes and set our ancient cares aside; They praised themselves for saintly grace while spending coin they’d never earned, And left the island folk to pay for every bridge they’d later burned.

Upon two hills where banners flew and pastures met the sky, Two farmers ruled their separate lands, each proud, each justified. One called his flock “enlightened souls,” too wise for guard or chain, He freed the dogs, pulled down the posts, and loosed them to the plain. “No need for walls,” he cried aloud, “nor watchmen stern of face, For trust and kindness guard us best, let mercy take their place.” So wolves came down by silent moon, unseen from outer lands, And met no bark, nor gate, nor gun, just faith in foolish hands.

The alley stank of iron rain, of rot, and weary bone’s lament, The eyes that once had seen the sun now burned in dull torment. The paws were raw from glass and grit, the ribs like winter’s sticks, No mother’s milk, no kindly tongue, just hunger’s cruel tricks. Each sound became a lash of fear, each step a curse of pain, Each shadow whispered human shape, and then the hurt again. No moon gave comfort through the grime, no breeze gave clean reprieve, For trust once torn by hands of man is slow again to weave.

The clinker-built cutter lifts her pride where the steel-grey rollers run, White cloud is clewed to the spar’s tall reach in the eye of the fleeting sun; Her bowsprit gleams like a silver lance where the dolphin squadrons weave, And the spume is hurled in the level gusts the whitecaps rise to heave.

The light came in and stirred my dreams; I rose to greet the sun once more, Though joints protested every step, my tail still wagged along the floor. I did not bark nor whine nor stray, I only longed to do what's right, To reach the grass, to greet the breeze, to mark the morning, hold the light. But legs betrayed where heart was true, and so he came, my master's arm, The cradle strong, the whisper low, the breath of love, the breath of calm.

The pampered lords and ladies robed proclaimed from gilded halls on high That strangers should be welcomed in and treated as our hearth-bound tie; We set the board with honest fare and cleared the benches by the fire, Yet soon they sat as titled guests, demanding more with bold desire.

The sky unbuckled at the rim where thunder crowned the plain, And from the loam, the river rose with judgement in its reign. It leapt the banks where cotton fed, and swept the homesteads bare, And bore away the daughters’ song that once had lingered there. No cradle sways, no echo sings beneath the shattered tree, The river took the children’s song, and drowned what was to be.

I watched the fields where once we strode, now fallow, brown, and bare, The scents of grain and orchard lost to poisoned plastic air. The master's hand once tilled the soil, now clenched in silent dread, For those who rule behind the screen would see the garden dead. They speak of clouds and carbon lines while scratching at the root, And crush the farmer’s honest trade beneath a booted suit.