Friday, 30 October 2015

Until The Cats Come Home


During the green season
she sticks to the shadows
melds with the darkness
blends with the foliage.

Sometimes I catch a glimpse
a patch of snow, a smudge of ear
the snake of an eye
that fades if I go near.


The stairs creak
and the frame shifts
with little explosions 
in the wood

thoughts turn 
to fires and ghosts.


The honeycomb of jade mirrors
combine to glow, the gold reflectors
wait in a soft shape:
stares a hole through my door.

She swims in her mackerel coat
across the graveyard slates, 
the shipshape planks.
Her transparent claws 
hook, grapple 
the armchair sides
as she glides 
into the lap of the fire.

Makes a nest of a shoulder
the fine antenna 
of down twitch whiskers, 
the pig pink nose 
nuzzles the nib of this pen, 
scrawls her hooligan motion
onto the page of this blank ocean. 


  1. Beautiful work - puts me in mind of two cats of emphatic character I used to 'own' when I lived in England. Now long gone of course, but the reminder is sweet. Thank you. (And I much prefer your take on Cats to Eliot's.)

    1. Thank you, Nick. Love that 'own' in inverted commas.

  2. That is by FAR, the best, most colorful cat poem I've ever read...okay, it's right behind "Jubilate Agno" by Christopher Smart. ;-) xo

    1. Thank you, Marion. Wow, that puts a spring in my step!



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