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Tarka Harris

For Tarka

My beloved Tarka,
I remember you through the years
Sending a great spiralling arc of water
Cascading soft into the morning light
As you leapt from the river
Your coat gleaming black,
Taking care of the moment.

What colour is the wind?
You considered that, didn’t you, nose tilted to the air,
Eyes gently focussed, as you lay in the sun
On the garden table where the light slants down and the breeze
Catches the leaves in the tree.
What colour is the wind?
I often asked you.
But you didn’t tell.

When your old friend died,
Casley, our always-smiling golden lab,
Some of the sun went out of your life too.
And then there was that bumptious ball of energy and demands,
The pup, jumping all over the place and pushing you sideways, so to speak.
So you just sat there,
Eyes clouding over.
Considering things.

But you are up and running now, aren’t you,
I often catch you, mostly in the evening light,
Bounding through the water
Eyes clear and bright,
Carrying your gentle nature
And silent wisdom
With you.

Patricia Harris