Thursday, 17 March 2011

Of Cats

Cat – stole the night and kept it.
Ermine-furred, only a king would dare wear such a robe.
Cat – tiptoed on the edge,
on ledges and shelves,
on the knife-edge between dark and dawn.
Cat – shadow of Bastet – sleek –
but fixed to no pedestal, nor tainted by womanly form,
outlasted the Nile and perennial floods.
Cat’s eyes shine knowledge far older than fairy tales,
flickering fires of primitive times back into our minds.
Cat watched man scrawl antelopes on cave walls
(before we had a right to use that word).
Cat watched our crawling infancy,
our crude stolen furs and fumbling flint into flame.
Cat watched with a silent cat smile.
Cat waited, patient over its prey,
until we had reached its standard,
and settled in our laps, to sleep.

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