I can’t get those dogs out of my head.
The sheep came out of the gate

bewildered, animals in a half human
primal world, corralled, cajoled, whistled

into place. The dogs knew only their
single task, the purpose of their lives.

It was spring on Anglesey, off the
north coast of Wales, and the trials

were for the best dog. The man lifted
a hand, but turned it gently as if it turned

by itself in a breeze, and gave a whistle,
that was all. Black and white, the sheepdog

was out in front before the flock
got half way down the boggy field. It took

command, knew the sheep that well,
as well as the sound and hand

of the man who had given it everything
to reach this point. It believed, we could say,

in nothing so much as its own self in flux
forming a perfect circle in the green.

This may be what it saw, the spring sun
coming up early, out from behind the drizzle.

It was seen and unseen, knew and did
not know a thing, for knowing is a human

struggle. The dog was there and gone,
and there again, before the whistle sounded

a second time, before the sheep stopped
midfield, and found themselves secure.

Look at your free thinking reflection now,
you’re all bored, scruffy and … bored again.
It’s Saturday night, but you can’t function
without her around to give you options.

Saturdays are usually smart casual affairs.
Well lit restaurant, followed by a coffee.
Some fine, sensual sex, then deep peaceful sleep
straight after a movie, or ‘Law and Order’.

But this week she’s on a working holiday
and you are a total lost cause. To
morrow you’re sure you will sleep all
morning, rest all day, because remembering

what you used to do on weekends is hard,
before you started this relationship was
many years ago. Before the knowledge
of what to wear, how to wear it, what

to drink and how much, what to eat
and how to cook it, what to read
and what to learn from it was all in the
future for you. When she was a single

fashion reporter without a project.
What did you do before she came along?
You could get drunk, but you’d just feel sick. Sit
lonely with a Van Gogh jig saw puzzle.

POET BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH: Matt Roberts is from the Yorkshire Dales, England, but at the moment he is teaching in Seoul, Korea. When not teaching Matt loves reading Philip Larkin, Hugo Williams and Carl Sandburg, among others. He has been published in a several poetry magazines, such as ‘Decanto’, ‘Adagio Verse Quarterly’, ‘Inquisition Poetry’, ‘Verdad’, and ‘Munyori.”

My chairs’ arms are wide
Perfect to rest a weary limb
It’s body is firm
Perfect to hold a heavy load

Still as it awaits
The forces imploring it
Withstanding all
It’s body is strong

Weary bodies await
It’s arms stretched and comforting
They come to it
And sit

With my chair, they are better
Great relief encompasses those
That need it
And my chair needs them