The Old English Sheepdog

Lolloping over the old English cobbles,
In bright July sunshine that licks at your face,
The old English sheepdog peers out of his fringe-hair
And smiles a mild greeting of ‘God be with you.’
Past the squat church with the rooks standing sentry
And past the young mums with their children in tow.
Past the red post box and past the newsagents,
Past the o’er-grandiose building society,
The old English sheepdog trots by with contentment
As children excitedly squeal in delight.

Other dogs pass in a light-footed patter,
Smaller, more wizened and fearful of tread.
The old English sheepdog looks down on them properly,
Grunting away through his stiff upper lip.
But here comes a mongrel who will not pull over,
Who will not acknowledge the well-defined law.
The street is a maelstrom of teeth and fur flying,
A belly ripped open ‘twixt resolute fangs.
The sheepdog trots on with an air of self-righteousness.
The mongrel limps off as the cobbles run red.