SOLITUDE

Five o’clock mess in the middle of the road
tells that the greyhound-man was there
pausing to let his dogs unload
before pushing on to old railway line
serenaded by the tide of the rising Foyle.

Around half-seven he will return
to feed gundogs and himself break fast
once the sleeker canines have been watered well
and as he sups tea he will mull on past,
but not so much as to break topsoil.

Then he’ll fetch the gun that he cleaned last night
and check once more to ensure it’s clear
then lead pointers into waxing light
beyond suburbs in his country gear
while the bounding setter to vanguard boils.

He’d packed own lunch. There’s none at home
to welcome him back after each foray,
and only the cats to scold and comb
themselves in disdain as the pups seek play
and only the land to soothe turmoil
his lonely heart nurses.