THE POTTER’S DOG
By Robert Taylor
A few months past in early May At a potter’s roadside place, I stopped by his pots of clay My visit there I now re-trace. I found that day in Jocotepec A dog no less - to my suprise The very image of my dear pet With golden hair, ears, face and eyes The potter took in this stray young friend His companion now- in captivity Whose daily hours were to spend Chained to his tree - the indignity And so each day I passed that way This dog and I - now friends, you see To the potter: one day could say- ‘If only he belonged to me’. The weeks flew past - no solace given To that dear dog whose fate decided To spend his hours in his own prison His master’s care - so misguided. Three months hence, I learned the worst- His collar, frayed, loosened, broke Alone at night, nature cursed, That deadly road- gone in a stroke. Some dogs are loved, and some we cherish, And in return they give devotion, But some, not loved, so quickly perish- Dismissed, denied, without emotion. |