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 wind had teeth that bit his skin and gnawed the wounded hide,
He limped through gutters reeking death, where hopeless ghosts abide.
A ragged thing of fur and fright, with heart too weak to run,
He sought the dark to end his watch before the rising sun.
But fate, that fickle weaver, played her thread in quiet guise,
A lampbeam flared, and strangers came, with pity in their eyes.
He froze, then trembled belly down, the filth beneath his chest,
And wet himself in pleading fear, by sorrow’s own bequest.
Then, oh, strange change of mortal air! No boot, no stick, no shout;
But murmurs low as meadow-brook, where cruel winds are out.
He felt the touch of hands like rain that cools a fevered shore,
He smelled the scent of gentleness he’d never known before.
The world grew blurred by weeping eyes that could not name their grief,
For pain unspoken met its match in unexpected relief.
He whimpered once, and waited blow, but only warmth instead,
And thus began his rebirth from the land of pain and dread.
Warm water ran through matted fur and soothed the biting fleas,
The filth gave way to russet gold, to soft and shining ease.
They took the tangles, thorn by thorn, with words he could not know,
Yet somehow felt their rhythm kind, their purpose pure and slow.
The scent of soap, of garden earth, of hearth and gentle care,
Was like the first remembered dream of springtime’s fragrant air.
He closed his eyes, half-dead with joy, and drifted into rest,
While somewhere deep his battered heart rekindled in his breast.
He woke to warmth that held his frame, to wool and woven peace,
No lash, no shout, no hunger’s claw, just safety’s vast release.
He sniffed the room: of human scent, yet not of harm or dread,
Of fire and bread and candle smoke, of life’s good things instead.
And when they brought him food to taste, he scarcely dared to eat,
As though his soul must learn again what kindness meant for meat.
But trust, once starved, will bloom with time, when watered by the hand,
And so he laid his head to sleep, in this, his promised land.
Then came the child, a smaller soul, with laughter bright and near,
Whose gentle palms, like morning dew, caressed the weathered ear.
She whispered things he could not know, but felt within his core,
A pledge of love that echoed soft through every hurt before.
Her breath upon his muzzle fell like dawn on winter clay,
And all the world grew warm again, as night was swept away.
For thus was sealed the truest bond that mercy ever wove,
The beast betrayed, the heart restored, the covenant of love.
(By John Shenton)