Our cat was seventeen years old. He was sweet natured and never
bit and only used his claws in extremis. He was our grand-daughter’s
cat but along the way of her moving houses, he came to stay with us for a bit and
never left. He died last year and it’s only now I’ve felt able to write about
him. I miss him. He loved his two knitted shawls.
OUR CAT
We laid him to rest
Next to the fence,
Close to the daffodils.
Brushing the dead leaves
From where we were to lay him.
Carefully placing his bright shawls
Underneath and around him.
Where the snowdrops flowered
To light the way for him.
A fit resting place for a conqueror to lie,
To listen to eternity whistling.
©2024 Gwen Grant.