The frost lay bright on field and tree, the winter sun was thin and pale,
As timid finch and wren took flight to peck their meagre, scattered bale.
Yet from the eaves came thunder's wing, the pigeons swarmed with greedy might,
They thrust, they clashed, they drove away the weaker kin in ruthless fight.
They gorged and strutted, bold and vain, their cooing rose in mocking tone,
As helpless, cold, the small birds watched, their morning feast now picked to bone.
But near the barn, in golden light, where winter’s hush lay still and deep,
A watcher stirred with knowing eye, the farmstead’s hound woke from his sleep.
He stretched, he yawned, then bared his teeth, and through the yard his fury came,
A rush of claws, a thundered bark, a tempest wrapped in hunter’s frame!
The pigeons rose in frantic flight, their conquest lost, their feast denied,
And in their place the meek returned, with trust anew and hearts untied.
No tyrant dared to test his fangs, no shadow crept within his sight,
And so the little flock could feed, beneath his gaze, in calm delight.
The day grew old, the sun sank low, the birds in hedge and hollow lay,
While by the door the hound stood tall, his duty done, his foes away.
Then, drifting from the farmer’s hearth, there came a scent both rich and deep,
Of roasted meats and warming spice, a gift for him, his watch to keep.
He left the field, his charge at rest, and met the hand that knew his worth,
A scratch, a word, a fire’s glow: “Good dog,” they called, “Best dog on earth.”
(By John Shenton)