For the dverse prompt.
This is not an ornament,
a chunk of nineteenth century pottery,
not just a Staffordshire dog,
staring into another world
where its mate is not.
This voiceless, hairless companion
sat by great-grandma’s chair
to be petted by children then grandchildren
a stray adopted from a flea market
when she was just married,
Victoria still on the throne,
and never left her side for seventy-five years.
Dog, I say, you’ve seen some changes,
been dragged across counties and countries,
and it’s not over yet.
You’ve seen them all out,
all those children,
almost all dead bones now,
and I wonder if your mirror image
sits on some mantelpiece,
thinking pottery thoughts,
longing for those puppy days
when you were twins.
This is not a poem but a piece of history,
a shard, you might say,
that has no meaning for anyone
but me and a Staffordshire dog.