An Epitaph for Lovell, Our Dog


by Martha Bacon
On the evening of her death, our dog, young Lovell,
Stood and the hair pricked on her spine,
A spaniel, paler than German wine.
Lovell, go seek! Blonde elf-locks and brook-brown eyes.
The partridge rustles, the pheasant flies.
In the last look of September, when the cold quickens
On the day when I first see breath,
When geese feather their shafts and sight the south,
In the last of the leaf, the first of the fog,
Then I remember Lovell, our dog.
She scented the quarry, stiffened, curled her forefoot,
Pointed her questing nose,
Snarled at her prey and froze
And, marking her own mortality upon the wing
Seized the distinguished thing.