Girl and wolfhound at Glebe
So might it be titled in a painting
deep-framed in gold summer light
and underneath a little polished plaque:
Girl and her wolfhound at Glebe.
Take out the crass crossing lights
that hold them momentarily together
stilled as the artist always wishes
creating the subject onto which to shimmer
the pale near-transparent long white dress
loose-hanging below the elaborate braided hair
into which - what artifice - small crystals
wink and glitter. And the wolfhound, so
rumpled, shaggy, half-depleted of his fur
except that is his style - as if he's just risen
from lying uncombed at his mistress's feet
and is instantly on the lookout for wolves
of the suburban variety. His leash
hangs in her gentle hand, an arc.
He half-wanders, being too royal to succumb
to any command other than her poise.
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