Laying down, too weak to move

Looking up, no more to prove

Tongue hanging, dry since noon

It’ll be ok, he will be home soon

Nose is dry, and breath shallow

Dark eyes, closing till slightly narrow

No whistle, no calling tune

It’ll be ok, he will be home soon

Tail down and laying still

Ears erect but hearing nil

No more barking at the moon

Naught, but he will be home soon

Opening the gate, getting late

He’d left early, just after eight

He whistled, his calling tune

Wants to feed his hairy loon

No reply, now where is his dog

Thinks, probably chasing a frog

Or running rabbits out on the dune

Never mind, he will be home soon.