Today we have the wonderful Elaine Gorman, reading a poem by the Keats-Shelley Prize winning poet Patrick Cotter. Word on the street, she's an ace at badminton. Here she is with her new puppy Luna.
The dog who read books had nowhere in his brain for the words to go.
As they streamed in through his eyes, line by line they re-emerged through each
fibre in his fur with a yelp.
He watched his master’s noiseless act
of reading and copied him as best he could turning the pages
by swishing his nose, swivelling his head from side to side and top
to bottom over each page. Words of English left him a shiny,
glistening coat but Irish words left him with the most peculiar
smell, attracting the barks in par- ticular of wolfhounds and red
setters, water spaniels, Kerry Blues, and the keening of priests who
prayed only in hidden ditches near forgotten limestone mass rocks.
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