Monday, 22 November 2010

Poetry?

I penned this after watching a neighbour's cat in the field opposite the house. I don't like to suggest I was gazing out of the window rather than doing anything productive; indeed,down here in 'Tales', there is enough to fuel to feed the fire of general opinion that I am a work-shy layabout, without my having to add to it. I fiddled around with this for some time before deciding to insult the world of poetry by attempting that form. Well, I like it...

The Orange Cat

The orange cat stalks through raggedy-brown, clumpy grass,
belly slung low, legs poised to
spring him to a pounce
once his radar ears
pinpoint the scuffling creature scurrying,
oblivious.

He sits.

He could sit all day, but
there are horses, two handsome stallions striding.
One likes being a horse, and goes
thudding up and down on spindly legs,
hooves flying, clods launching
into orbit with every step.

The other horse rolls his eyes.
He’s seen it all before.

The cat sits until the hooves and clods flail too close, then
he turns and flees.
Through the hedge,
on the other side, he sees people. He
goes upright on his toes, his tail-tip curling,
miaowing and purring,
round and around their legs, until
they follow him indoors to offer him food.

He’s trained them well.

And outside, in the field, the mice,
and voles, and rabbits
heave a huge sigh.
They are safe, for now.

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