The memory of what has been,
And never more will be. Wordsworth, 'The Lucy Poems'

When my collie-cross, Woody, races
across the field: ears tucked back,
tail tucked in, aerodynamically complete,
he looks so natural, he looks so neat.
I can hardly see his feet as he runs so fast
across the winter grass on this early spring
day I think of a coarse farming man 
leaning on a 3-bar gate watching lambs
gambol and jump for happiness. His eyes
are full of memory, he remembers his child
Lucy, the apple of his eye, taken far too soon.
I know his feeling well. My son would be 36
if he had lived. Nothing is ever the same.  

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