I wonder if the dog sees beauty

I WONDER IF THE DOG SEES BEAUTY

When a dog barks on television

I watch my dog, stretched out

there under the screen. Not an ear

moves; not a flicker

of interest. But if the dog next door

sets one paw on our driveway,

through windows, shutters

and walls, she hears him

and jumps to her feet. She looks

from me to the door and back.

I wonder if the dog sees beauty.

When I shrug on my jacket,

loop the scarf round my neck,

and she crouches on the lawn

as if inviting me to toss her a ball

or a stick. But she’s not a dog

who plays games. She watches,

ready to spring, and when I

jingle the bunch and turn that final

key in the lock she jumps

into the air and barks

for sheer joy at the whole street

and jumps again and barks and twists

as if to buck off any rider

and the saddle too. Then she bolts off

down the drive, looks back,

runs on, looks back

and barks as she goes

about the business of walking

me to the shops. And at the corner

is that beauty she sees and barks at

as I stop, unable to go on

while the fog falls up the cliff face

from the valley like water

and she turns to check? I am

lagging behind.

Is that beauty that she sees

in the distance? Or a moment

of less substance than a bone

and no point in saving for later?