Black cat, all cloak and fangs, cascades down
the long shadows of the stone garden wall.
That pantomime villain, skulks in the wings
as a swing-seat slowly arcs
under a fat man vacantly chewing
a cold and congealed roast chicken leg.
The sun's doing nothing: has no intention
of slowly sinking. On the other side
of the fence, two pink faced ladies defend
themselves with a golden parasol,
enough meat on the barbecue
to feed a village, they sit in
a nest of newspapers, stupefied
on red wine.
The power of the black cat,
its grip on the sun, the orange ball that
burns and flares, fur, claws, paws
smoulder, cling on until the sun
dies in the long spikes of its grip.
(revised version after attending a superb writing workshop led by David Caddy)