Beyond the Bridge the mornings break on leagues of grass still wet with dew,
And hounds long vanished from our sight go streaming out in twos and few;
They quarter hills for phantom scents, they harry winds that cannot stay,
And tear in sudden loops and turns as pups released at close of day.
With ears flung back and bright keen eyes they thunder where the skylarks climb,
While clover bends beneath their charge and brooks keep measure to their time;
No whistle calls, no leash restrains, no weary limb demands its due,
Only the old delight of dogs and all the happy things they knew.
Yet none forget the hearth they kept, the hand that stroked a greying head,
The boots they followed down the lane, the chair beside a master's bed;
And now and then, so some maintain, a hound comes back a little while,
Borrowing another's eager legs to race a field in sudden style.
Then starts the dash from room to room, the circling run, the flying feet,
As if a long-lost friend had found once more a scent remembered sweet;
The moment passes swift as rain, the borrowed traveller slips from view,
But leaves a wag, a burst of speed, and one small sign that all is true.
(By John Shenton)