Just experimenting.  More like a (very) short story than a poem, but thought you may enjoy (?) it anyway.  Feedback - Good or Bad, is always appreciated.  I'm new to this game.

***************************

Ben and the dog

Ben yawned and patted the cold side of the bed where Mary should have been.  Just empty space and cold cotton now.  Sighing, he swung his legs out of the bed and rubbed his eyes.  The dog sat up and wagged his tail.  Expecting breakfast and then the usual walk along the cliffs.

The dog missed Mary too, couldn’t quite understand where she’d gone.  Here one minute, giving him toast and pouring tea in his bowl (his favourite) and now nowhere to be seen.  Ben seemed a bit sadder as well and he could never remember where he’d the put the lead.  Dog had to help him out with that, even though he wasn’t a sniffer dog.  Same coat. Same pocket. Easy.

Breakfast done with (Dog had to settle for Cat food now), Ben left his small stone cottage that stood on the cliff, looking out to sea.  As he went down his garden path he marvelled at how the cliff edge was now about 150 yards away.  When he had the cottage built, over forty years ago, the cliff seemed to be a much greater distance from the end of the garden.  Natural progress he assumed.

Another fifty years and his back garden would disappear over the edge.  A hundred years on and his kitchen would join the rocks at the bottom of the cliff.  Still, that would be someone else’s problem.

Ben was 73 now and he always took a walk up along the cliff path to the bench, at the flat bit up ahead, that offered the panoramic views of the sea and the coastline.

The dog, a black Labrador, trotted happily along by his side.  He called the dog “Dog”, as this seemed to cover most eventualities and, when, or if, dementia set in fully, it would, hopefully, be one less name to remember.

He didn’t know what the dog called itself, maybe Eric or Charles or something like that.  The dog never said anything in any case.  It seemed to respond to calls of “Dog” which is all that mattered to Ben.

As Ben started along the path, Dog zig-zagged to his left and right, nose to the ground and tail swishing.  Ben thought the dog should know every smell along the path by now, but apparently not.

Ben breathed a little harder as the path ascended, heavier still as he climbed the last, calf-straining, twenty yards to the bench.

He was wearing his usual cliff-path walking attire; stout walking shoes, jeans, plaid button-down shirt, ever present baseball cap that said ‘Sailors are the salt of the earth’ to cover his shiny dome and his heavily pocketed windproof jacket.  The bottom pockets contained the dog’s lead and some plastic bags for inadvertent canine ablutions and a bag of doggy treats.

The upper pockets contained his pipe, lighter and tobacco pouch and the ever-present notepad and pen.

To be honest, it was a bit warm for a coat as the breeze was lighter than normal and the Sun was out.  But, a man needs pockets, so Ben endured the extra sweat.

Ben arrived at the bench and with a grunt and a sigh sat down to catch his breath and admire the view.  The dog wandered to and fro, oblivious to the panoramic sights, just enjoying the smells and the breeze.

Ben took in the blue sea shimmering, grey cliffs forming the landscape around the bay, little boats bobbing on the sea and the tiny, uninhabited, spot of an island out in the distance.

Remembering his outings in his little motor boat with Mary, his wife, to that peaceful island.  The sandwiches and a bottle of Champagne, packed away in the cool box ready for a quiet picnic, the Scottish woollen rug, Dog at the prow, nose stretched to the breeze (yes, he had watched Titanic).

The picnic - watching the world go by.  Holding hands, enjoying the peaceful, loving companionship.  No words required.

Tomorrow would have been Ben and Mary’s 40th Anniversary, but inconveniently, she’d lost her battle with Cancer last week, so Ben had to absorb the views on his own today.

Mary’s present and card remained in the bottom drawer of his bedside cabinet, probably now never to be opened.  Her favourite scent as well, at least £2 a squirt.  Ben would always have been happy with the scent of her soap, the coconut smell of her hair.  But the expensive smelly stuff made her happy, so that had made Ben happy too.

Ben sat there on the bench, taking in the magical vista in front of his eyes, smelling the salty air, hearing the shriek of Seagulls high overhead, missing Mary’s company, re-living the times they’d sat there together.  Happy in their silent thoughts, holding hands, wind ruffling their hair, the dog doing laps of the bench, ever hopeful of a snack.

Ben called the dog now, rustled in his pocket for a doggy treat, snapped on the leash, tied him to the bench and let the dog gently take the snack, smack his lips and look hopefully for more.  Ben took out his tobacco pouch, filled his pipe, lit it up and contentedly chuffed away, enjoyed the hit of nicotine and that sweet smell in his nostrils.

A little later, finished with the pipe now, he took off his cap, placed the pipe, tobacco pouch and lighter into it and put it down on the bench so they didn’t all blow away.  He stroked the dog behind the ears, kissed his nose and gave him another snack.  Took out his notebook and pen and scribbled a little note.

Ben stood, knees popping, creaking and cracking, said “stay there Dog”.  He walked to the edge of the cliff and jumped, soundlessly, to the rocks below.

He knew other walkers would soon pass on by and see Dog, with the Paddington-esque note “Please look after this dog.  His name is Dog”.  Other than that, Ben knew no more, nor did he wish to.