Being a loner with an elderly dog
by Michael Holme

Andy Murray won Wimbledon.
It was a day of national pride.
Lucy and I relaxed outdoors.

Clare would cut roses
from her wheelchair.
I could picture her bending
over the multicoloured, shin-high wall
that the dogs had stripped with their claws.
Lucy’s sober now.
At 112 she just excites about apple cores.

Today smoke and laughter diffused
across several plots. I smelled sausages.
Lucy looked tired and flattened herself
on the evening-cooled concrete.
I was tired too; tired of saying I was Okay
when I meant I’d improved:
panics had stopped.

Andy Murray will be in the papers tomorrow.
Good for him.

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