Vincent Turner

Vincent resides in Essex UK and has been writing for around ten years, Currently he works as an alcohol and drugs worker. He has two young boys and his fervent hope is that one day they too will be in touch with their muse.

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Envying Harry

Like the last strand of soft down

she is never coming back.

Every time it rains, you’ll remember her

running into the garden snatching

clothes from the line, cursing

the gods for their poor timing.

Or how she gritted her teeth,

and broke into sweat,

when grating Cheese.

The dog whimpers most nights

belly up, beside the unlit fireplace

unsure of where you have gone.

Yet being a dog, it forgoes

Misery and longing.

Often

I only have to brush by its bowl;

and he forgets

momentarily

Only to return to bed

Once fed

to nuzzle his chin upon her pink slipper

which is damp from canine love

and the refusal

to remove her fading rose petal scent.

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