Tag Archives: cats

Cat and the Butterfly

Cat and the Butterfly

My present interest in nostalgia
I take as a good sign.
It means I have not lost my memory
and like to keep my roots in line.
The music I liked best in my youth
has stood the test of time.
You cannot beat a good tune
welded to a decent rhyme.

As I look out my kitchen window,
I see clouds shift and pass,
sparrows pecking at sunflower seeds,
and a black cat sat on the grass.
I watch it glare at a butterfly
that flutters by the shed.
Like a winged twig it rises
above the black cat’s head.

That cat will never catch that butterfly
but that cat does not know that.

If you live near a volcano
you hope it won’t erupt
in an avalanche of lava,
sparks and smoke, lethal and abrupt.
It would chase away the tourists,
scar the land and choke the air.
You don’t want to feel a shudder
when you’re climbing up a stair.

But one thing is certain,
that cat will never catch that butterfly
but that cat does not know that.
No, that cat does not know that.

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Spring in England

Spring in England

In the higher branches of the evergreens,
three magpies squabble with a crow.
Why and what it means only they would know.
A pigeon disturbs them,
flutters down, lands nearby.
Not bound to stay, they flap away,
below the blue spring sky.
A few starlings nod their heads,
pace this way and that,
inspect the lawn for worms,
a trail of slug or snail,
watched from behind reeds
by a crouching cat,
on this bright, contented day.
Even better will come, I can safely say.
Though that on the news is real,
what I see in my garden
is spring in England as it has always been,
birds alert, perched, in flight,
in worlds of blue and green.
And I know, when waked by love,
be it in winter or in spring,
the heart is a tender thing,
for it is then exposed, vulnerable.
The mind concludes
that before roused by love,
the heart merely functions,
is barely attended to,
but when the mind is conscious of love,
the heart is stirred, like a bird,
breathes, pines to sing.
It is then when the heart is a tender thing.

Bee

Bee

That bee is like no other bee.
The bee I see behaves as a bee,
but is unique as a bee,
and is unlike any before or after bee.
It bumbles free by the tufts of grass
below the green blue bell stems.
To be a bee or not to be a bee
is not the question that would
be asked by a bee,
for a bee has no brain,
and cannot therefore perplex itself
to stretch its hold on remaining sane.
Such a choice does not exist for a bee,
and it would not know how to contemplate
as an existential bee.
Those gulls are loud and have to be,
to be heard above the waves of the sea.

That is your life, cat,
to sit at the foot of the bush,
your hope to catch a bird,
but I smile to know,
you will never snatch
a sparrow or a starling,
for they perch and preen
on the highest twigs,
but you will never learn.
Eventually, you turn,
pad over the lawn, sit by the pond,
your hope to catch a frog,
which I know you never will.
At least, you are never chased by a dog.
Through a crack in the back wall
or over a fence, finally, you vanish,
return to your owner’s garden,
who no doubt gives you milk
and cans of fishy cat food,
and who put a collar round your neck,
attached to it a bell,
which I hear at times ring.
Not that bad a life, cat,
I conclude, as sunshine
makes my garden very green,
to my pleasure, as I contemplate
my first mown lawn of spring.