It’s dark still
she wakes me -
a gentle nudge.
Shivering into clothes
she’s impatient now
as I pull on the beanie
and reach for her lead.


Out the door
in a frenzy of fur,
one deliberate turn
and she knows this route.
She squats by the street light -
her puddle of yellow
a pungent spiral of steam.


‘Freezing, eh!’
yells one of the regulars,
I nod and keep the
profile low tucked up tight
in my polar fleece.


Under cover of darkness
a geranium cutting,
the crunch of boots
on icy grass,
crystal droplets
caught in headlights,
the silent cocoon of fog.


Winter’s night
morphs into morning -
concrete grey
a bleak beginning.
Muddy paws
smarting cheeks
warmed now to my finger tips
I can smell coffee brewing.



©Leigh Hay 2009