Two years since you left

a poem by Jan Oskar Hansen

I walk passed the cave,
only you and I know about,
nearly every day, mind
it is sealed by building debris now,
they didn’t know that the cave was your grave.
When clouds drift across the clear Algarvian sky
I often see your happy face and wagging tail,
once there was a rainbow above our cave
and they tell me that dogs can’t see colours.
I don’t believe that,
you always preferred to sleep on the yellow blanket,
the one I didn’t want you to snooze on,
instead of the wolf grey one.
Tonight I’m going to the tavern
and when coming back,
walking passed our cave,
I’ll more than likely be drunk,
you hated that,
but I’ll promise not to sing or embarrass you
by being maudlin;
so good night my friend.