The cat stretches his full length,
Stomach filled with stolen cream, a mouse or two,
Going his merry rounds, no more than a mile around
The perimeter of his inhabited cat-world,
Seeking cat-adventures, secret only to him.
Leaving billets doux as sign-posts that he had been
On silent patrol guarding that which belongs
To the wandering scoundrels unaware of his presence
As he lies in silent wait until evening dusk calls him home
To his hearth and kin, who patiently wait
To let this vagrant wanderlust vagabond in.
Gwen Beauregard - 2011
No comments:
Post a Comment