Coco

Coco, in the Park

On a drizzly Sunday, the sun half‑mussed in clouds,
I took my leash‑chain, heart in a courage thick‑punch,
and we ambled through the park where the cobbles glowed
under the pale‑silver light of the hedge‑line sun.

Coco leapt like a ravenous sprite, a chestnut‑fuzz beast,
her paws made thrumming sounds on the damp stone,
and I watched her tail wag in a rhythm – a secret feast
for any soul who loves a gentle, graceful tone.

Her nose twitched at every budding dewy leaf,
each footfall a bounce of hope, a crisp thrill,
she'd chase the hawk‑fly with a joyous, unbroken belief,
whole‑hearted, curious, pulling my mind to feel.

We paused beside the oak – the creaking old one with scars,
I tucked a biscuit into her jaws, for flavour of the day,
the tea‑toss between us, a quiet world that spars
with no chalk‑blotch of mid‑night and a restful slay.

Beneath those gnarled oaks, the world thinned to a sigh,
Coco slept, her breathing a poem of slow breath;
the dawn painted a cake of rose on the sky,
and I, I wonder, asked her: "How's the world favourite?

Coco, with her bristled hair and invisible breath,
reminds me that colour is endless if we let it be,
in every droplet of rain, in every smell of hay,
there's a life; there's a heart, waiting to be seen.