cat hunting bird

It has been very cold here, lately, and the two cats that
are around the fields and the garden, one our marmalade
cat and one his sworn enemy, the black cat, are so lithe
and graceful in their hunting, that I often stop to watch them.
The black cat is a stray which we feed and have put him a
bed in the greenhouse.  Our cat is so jealous, he will stand
guard over the food put out for the black cat until he’s called
They both try hard but are never within sight of catching a
bird.  If our cat brings in one of the little brown field mice, he
always drops it and then, with it being so small, we have to find it.
Not easy.  The last one hid in the round opening for the hoover hose
and took us hours to find.   Let out into the garden, these tiny
mice vanish in an instant down the sides of the path where they all
seem to live.

                            EARLY CATS

If you walk the long grass in the morning
When it’s white with frost
And grey with the visiting clouds,
You see the cats.
They stalk the robin and the doves
Come from a nearby garden.

Those snake quiet cats
Slither through their silent world,
To spring from the stickle grass
With a startling coloured grace.
Those cats!

They go hungry this morning
Because a thin black twig
Fell from a wintered tree,
Frightening the red chested robin
And the gentle doves.

And those quick cats,
Those early morning hunters,
Wailed their anger to the fading moon.

                                   © Gwen Grant



full moon


And when night comes
And darkness drifts over the earth
And fields vanish
And hedgerows become blurs of colour,
And the falling frost
Lays a bridal veil on the darkened grass,
And the lovely trees,
And all trees are lovely,
Fill the darkness with their magnificence
And their little inked-in leaves
Chuckle and rustle and whisper of the love
Shown for us in the drenching beauty of the night,
And the thin, thin beam of moonlight
Shines down like hope shining
Through the darkness of all those lost lives,

Well, then, that anxious heart
Staring through the midnight glass
Should find rest.
But those ears are deaf,
Those eyes blind to the radiance of the night,
Seeing only the darkness of the hour,
And then, for it is then, the frightened,
The fractured heart cries aloud,
O God, my God, where are you?’ 

And as the dying echoes of those trembling sounds
Vanish into the vanished fields
And sink into the blurry hedgerows,
The little inked-in leaves rustle and chuckle
And whisper those eternal words of love.
I am the light to your darkness,
I am the hope to your despair.
I am the peace to your pain.
I am the love you can rest on.’ 

                                              © GWEN GRANT