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This is a poetical portrait of a cat we cared for.


Submitted:Jul 19, 2009    Reads: 73    Comments: 4    Likes: 2   


Wraith.

Moves through the grass like drifting fog at night, she does.

Flick-flack eyes that catch each slightest twitch, she has.

Merciless, lightening quick assassin of all she wishes, she is.

Velvet spring steel muscles, scimitar sharp claws, she uses.

Each night she hunts and munches small furry take-aways,

At home, snacks and lunches on tinned meat à la gourmet.

All day snoozing is the norm; sleeper extraordinary she is,

saving her strength for the hunt. A professional in all ways.

A long whiskered grey muzzle that shows her size, she uses,

to lift the arm or hand to stroke her; where she chooses.

As if she needs a thank you, for all the killing, or excuses?

Those feathers! Me? Just who do you think that you accuses?

She goes where she pleases, while sniffing the breezes.

And God help the kith and kin of those that she seizes.

She's ever the tyrant, does whatever she pleases.

Maybe one of these days she'll pounce as she sneezes.

And then all of the artistry, the guile and the cunning,

Will all be for nothing. Now won't that be stunning.

They'll laugh at her antics, these defenseless prey,

As this defective killer misses each of them, spluttering.

As her timing, her grace and… 'the look on her face!'

She'll rant and she'll rave. She'll never, ever, behave.

With her killing now over she's 'not one to rave,

Of her time at the top of the food chain, with grace.

The birds and the moles and the mice all rejoice.

There're off of the menu and not by her choice.

The bane of their lives has been stopped in her tracks.

But there is ever the threat of another, 'in Black'.





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