No more walks to the wood

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Five Stick Sam

We stuck to it as long as we could.
Down to the meadow and across to the wood.
Up through the vineyard
in summer green and winter black
our way back.

Always, the sticks
his wooden rats.
The chase and the catch.
The toss and the snatch.
One day, five, clamped in his jaw,
all bought home to the door.

We stuck to it as long as we could.
No more.
No more walks to the wood.

With acknowledgement to John Hollander’s poem “an old fashioned song”.  Still raw with my grief  so I will add/change as time passes

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