But Biggles wants a walk. It's getting late,
And so he tilts his head and eyes his lead –
The space between my ears will have to wait.
Once off the lead he warps and wefts the grass
Past avenues of oak and beech and lime;
I stroll; he tracks from spoor to spoor; we pass
The playground, childhood's space to swing and climb.
Peace creeps up on me. Tightened, tangled knots
Begin to loosen in my cluttered soul.
It wasn't words I needed – yet more thoughts –
Just time and space to stretch, relax, unfurl.
Life has its rhythms: there are times to read,
And also times to follow the dog's lead.
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