Dogville

Dogville

In the wold where the old oaks creak,
Dogville sleeps on a misty lane.
Paws tap the cobbles, stray‑bark,
And the wind stirs the midnight grain.

A narrow lane of tea‑shop greens,
Where the boot socks line the left‑hand curb.
Above, the chimney’s grey plume leeks,
A play‑gone to‑bog of robin‑curb.

The dogs, four‑legged poets, roam,
Their noses nose the wool‑slicked loft.
A mutt, a terrier, a pup with a frown‑a‑foam,
Each step a beat of the village’s oft.

From the corner, the whistle booms—
A school‑lounge full of children’s shout.
Their voices swirl through dusk’s new glooms,
Cars breathe out their “poets’ spouts.”

So if you seek a place that purrs
With quiet mutter of muddy feet,
Walk the lanes of Dogville’s churn—
Where dog‑paths make every heart beat.