A jar

There is a jar
In the door
Opening onto the ocean,
And sailing by
A spinnaker -
Spinning across the sea,
The sea, the sea, the sea.

But in hot July
There's nothing more
Old dogs like to do
Than exhausted lie
On a polished floor,
No place they'd prefer to be,
Their black and tan nearly invisible
In the shadows:
A mass of matted ears,
Burrs, and ticks -
But no one cares.

There is a tune
In the distance
Coming from
A wireless.
This stirless
Hourless
Empty afternoon.

From 'Emptiness' by Charles Fox

The last day of our utterly blissful Cornish break.