These last weeks of Spring, the sky has been
alive with birds rushing anxiously about,
clearly with no time to waste what with nests
to make and new chicks to take care of. The cat
in this poem died three years ago and is buried
under the Philadelphus, which is covered now
with blossom. I still very much miss his beautiful
silken presence. As he grew older, he didn’t
bother so much with rushing about for any
reason. I so much know now how he felt. about
taking it easy.
GREY GEESE FLYING
Late afternoon,
The geese only now flying
Over the meadow.
Their faint calls
Barely breaking the silence.
Yet, the cat,
Supposedly sleeping,
Instantly lifts his head.
Dandelion paws
Darting down the garden,
Gold eyes burning
With the desire to fly,
To catch those
Faraway geese
And kill them.
©2021 GWEN GRANT
Poems by Gwen Grant 