TYSON BY THE GANGA (Poem)

(Written at Osho Gangadham, Rishikesh, India 6/10/16)

 PART 1

THERE HE goes,

The large dog's routine wash:

His mouth wide open, with his immense long tongue with saliva bouncing with joy -  he treads through the sand,

Moments later back down for a swim,

Half his coats pitch black, other parts a lighter variety of black,

bits of browny black,

Ah - now I see there’s a blonde streak on the right of his breast and a blotch printed over his buttock,

And I begin to realise his black coat is more a purple black, bringing somewhat mysterious element to his being;

clothed by coloured uniqueness,

The same spectrum of a darkening desert dune landscape.

Tyson’s his name. 

Chasing the river rocks, he follows its downward trajectory after being thrown up high - a true wicket keepers eye, along the ever-changing sandy slope,

He loves bringing back the largest rocks, the rocks he struggles the most to fit in his mouth,

Like humans apple bobbing,

He triumphs when his teeth grip it strong like a monkey when it keeps his son from slipping off a rooftop edge,

Clenching it and returning,

Tyson comes and goes breathing heavily and rapidly,

His belly contracts and softens as if curiously practicing pranayama.

And when he drops his rock into my hand, his release of breath is warm but heavy too - 

Like a Granddad’s footsteps in deep snow before his co-co arrives,

I’m sat here startled by her fearlessness for potential pain- thorns only a small obstacle - not reacting to a single scratch,

He knows where he's treading with each of his four feet,

Through the stream,

Clambering? No,

Leaping through bushes along its course,

He scampers through, like a toddler with long legs playing his or her first game of tag,  

PART 2

Now and again though,

An obstacle arises when a rocks been tossed over many hidden stones,

Tyson’s perception is not quite great enough to spot it:

He's gone too far for once searching for the stone, 

It remains un-seen to his eyes and the smell just a little too far for Tyson’s nostrils to pick up the scent along the river bank,

His back legs retreat in misfortunate, smell, smell, sniff like a spiritual seekers addiction to incense..Yet, Tyson still strives like a champion without a trophy; accepting he can’t ‘win em all’.

His posture tall and tail swags and sings with dance; pirouetting like a ballerina's footsteps on repeat,

I’m quietly sat with the reflection of him whirling in the evening waters,

I’ve marvelled all hours at this piece of life.

Silence

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This is taken from Dominic’s first un-published poetry collective.