The poet who understands cats has I think not yet been born. All I know for certain about cats is that they don't like the wind in the trees. And I don't even know that for an absolute certainty. But today it is windless. So why is Tommy the Cat spending the day here? No, I've no idea either. His nose is slightly scabbed as if he's been involved in a scuffle or perhaps caught himself up in a bramble. His ginger and white coat is a tad duller than I remember. But then that's only to be expected for like all of us he's getting a little older by the day...
Tommy the Cat
The first time Tommy came
it was to say goodbye
for someone in the bed upstairs
had breathed her final sigh.
4.30 in the morning 'twas
when Tommy slipped through the door
and trotted up the stair
to stand beside her door.
Since then he comes 'bout once a year
or maybe sometimes twice
he calls to check on how we are
and perhaps to look for mice.
He braves the crow that flies at him
and braves the winter snows
plodding round the neighbourhood
when lonely he patrols.
But now he's here and in my chair
and he won't go away
he's been here since the crack of dawn
and looks as if he'll stay
Till night at least or maybe longer
for who knows what's going on
behind those curtained eyes of green
and in the purring of his song.