Most odd. I don't think I've written a line of poetry since I was an angst-ridden teenager, but this floated up unbidden as I drifted into sleep last night.

The collie in question, btw, was a real dog. A pedigree rough collie named Tara we semi-accidentally acquired on a family holiday touring the West of Ireland back in the late 80s. Long story. She was a good friend and one of the best football players I've ever practiced with. Yes: the dog was a soccer star.

One of the happiest, enduring memories of that holiday was bedding down in a tent somewhere just outside Dingle, County Kerry - after a night of mighty craic in O'Flaherty's famous pub in Dingle town. Beautiful clear warm night; so I slept with my my head outside the tent, using Tara as a pillow.

I remember watching Tara sampling the morning breeze the next day; following her on woodland walks and thinking of how she read the winds as her books and newspapers.

Maybe I'm ready for a dog again.