by NIGEL JACKSON | 8th January 2023

So, once again, we take the side road
Of a side road and find the old home
Dreaming amidst its garden greenery
And its drive flanked by red hot pokers.

Hardly has the car pulled up at the cellar door
Than a warm and shaggy presence inserts himself
Into the front seat, on to my legs, silently,
With benign confidence. It’s Bear again, I see!

He looks at me cheerfully, sniffing a little
To determine who I am, is quickly satisfied
And pleased, no doubt, as well that I welcome him by name
And know him as Best Dog in the Great Wide World.

Inside the cellar door Helen engages Jennifer
In talk of this and that as wine is sought
As well as news. I prowl around the hangar-like
Interior, selecting stylish cards of garden scenes

And noting a fine old-fashioned teapot
With tasteful floral patterning and matching cup,
Which Helen will not buy. On the opposing wall
A piece of ornamental sculpture hangs –

A head in the classical tradition, commanding,
Although its downcast eyes are closed and topmost
Piece of skull sliced off, apparently, so Helen says,
To allow creepers to be grown from the grisly cup;

But I recognise the nineteenth unit of the Egyptian canon,
The diadem or Pharaoh’s headband, signifying
The two divided lobes of the neo-cortex,
Those bearers of perception, judgement, sense of self.

So it’s a sanctuary, this Western District winery.
Bear is the psychopomp, Andrew and Jennifer the guardians.
Later I meet two friends in a nearby paddock –
A bereaved pony and a communicative sheep.

Kindness protects them, as does the spirit of the place.
In a time of plague, confusion, fear, uncertainty
This citadel of the sacred stands. I throw a few balls
For Bear to catch and feel at peace, sustained.