Cat
The cat must be eight down,
He looks so tired
When he walks down the stairs,
Keeping his back leg raised in the air
Then pausing halfway
As if to wonder whether
He meant to go down or up after all.
His hair is thinning
And there’s pigment in his right eye
The vet says may or may not be
Liver damage,
And still here he is,
A shadow treading darkness,
To lie beside me
As he has done many nights past,
Helping to calm my heart
When the world is quite
And the worst questions are asked,
Until I find sleep
When at three or four
He will rejoin the shadows
And leave once more
To wherever that may be.
But I know that one night soon
He will move off
A final time and not return
To leave me alone,
Like a widow on the night’s shore,
Far worse than he.
Cynthia Buell Thomas
Thu 17th Dec 2015 17:39
And so do I really like this. It's beautifully written, .very sensitive
Only today my husband asked: Do you remember all the cats we've had since we were married? Right out of the blue, the question was. I went down the shortish list, reminding him of the when's and where's, each one in order, name, colour, etc. He was impressed, but he had missed only one. We are 'cat people' too, but we no longer have a pet. It seems odd that I have noticed this poem this evening.