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My Wooden Dog

August 29, 2010

I wrote this poem some years ago from my imagination, but yesterday I met the dog himself — or one of his distant relatives! There he was walking through grass as high as his tummy at Blackdown Rings, Devon, an old iron-age settlement, later to become a Norman motte and bailey. Perhaps he, like the dwelling-site, is hundreds and thousands of years old.


His ears are carved mahogany,
His polished nose is oak,
His coat is sleek, it’s made of teak,
The grain, so smooth to stroke.

He never lifts his leg at trees
When I take him to the park,
He thinks they are his family
And barks at their … bark!

My wooden dog is my best friend,
He loves to run and play.
Splinter, come! Splinter, sit!
Good boy, Splinter – stay!

© Celia Warren

2 Comments leave one →
  1. August 29, 2010 29,08,10

    Delightful poem and astonishing picture. Thanks for posting it, Celia. I do so enjoy all your accounts of your walks and outings.

  2. August 29, 2010 29,08,10

    Lovely. And putting Splinter down will not be so traumatic. After all, you can always pick him up again.

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