by Dianne Brown
The ghost dog stands at the foot of my bed, his head is tilted, his eyes are sad.
He's gone to the land where the good dogs all go,
Where the sun always shines and the cold winds don't blow.
I call his name softly and fondle his ears, and cradle his head trying to hold back my tears.
He stays for a while and slowly turns away,
He's now always free to wander and play.
In the fields of his dreams, he has many a friend,
But I know he was mine right up to the end.
He looks back and I see that his eyes are now shining,
With a wag of his tail, he leaves me still crying....