Interesting that this book was given just before the First World War – a war in which the same Rab Morris smuggled his dog both to and from Gallipoli where he was a sergeant in the Royal Army Medical Corp. Both man and dog survived. 

                                           (inscription in an old book)

Rab the howl and bark and snarl is all

metal violence, buckling the air

in my snout, where sea breeze should be.

There’s no escape and the bones are wrong

to walk the beach, paddle, and bite the waves

no, I don’t like it, old blood in the water

smells ferrous with fear.

The men on the docks at Alexandria,

where you found me, used to say

Bukhera fe mish mish

which means, Rab, tomorrow there will be apricots

as if hope is a fruit and not peace

in the sunshine

but by the medic tents’ hot shade

my head boils – noise and smells –

beach rumbles under and over my fleas –

my smallness.

Men off the hill hustle past 

burnt meat in stretchers

I look hard for your face

beneath the tin hat of every passing man,

when can we leave?

My chin on your leg at dead of night

Your fingers absentmindedly

pace the fur on my head, scratch ears, yes

awake always, sighing, rough blanket under

I will you to leave,

will you, will you?

Winter’s on the waves.

(Photo of stretcher bearers from the collection at Melbourne Legacy)