Every dog has its day

My dear old mum used to tell me
“Son, every dog has its day.”
Now in dog years, I am 350 371 years old,
but I still quietly sit on my mat
& wonder when it will come
& what it will be like
& as the shadows grow long
& the darkness draws in
You see, I have this sinking feeling
that it’s been and gone —
I wasn’t paying attention
& I missed it.

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I put my head between my paws
& sleep a little more
& dream of dear old mum.

“There’s time, son, there’s time.”
That's what she’d say
& she’d ruffle between my ears
“There’s none such as good as you”.
& I’d lie back down
Beneath the old apple tree
& dream the day away.