A Poem For Chestnut

We found his still body lying inside the gate,
His limbs still warm, like we were only just late.
My siblings saw him dead, and cried over the life,
Dad saw him dead, and went fetched his knife.

It was our little kid Chestnut, with his eyes half closed,
His long ears limp, and dirt smeared on his nose.
Our small pet goat was not yet a year old,
When he finally lay still, his body growing cold.

We might have buried him under an old gum tree,
With a little dirt mound for the world to see,
But his short, chubby body isn't there under the logs.
What his spirit left was cut and given to the dogs.

He was like the little runt of that breeding year,
Small compared to others, but oh-so dear.
He almost had a kind of switch inside his tum,
On or off. Sleeping or a hyper ball of fun.

When you went to the yard, he'd come running, full throttle.
Did you remember him? Did you bring his plastic milk bottle?
His brown nose would nudge you, he'd find where it's hiding,
Or he'd suck on your jeans – see if they're worth trying.

When I think of Chestnut, I'll remember his energy,
His eyes full of life, his crazy moments of glee.
The day before, he scratched my boot and left a line.
I don't think I'll polish it away for some time.