I wander through a hall of fairground mirrors
glimpsing sometimes in the waving glass
your profile,
always turned away.
And just beyond your eyes
drifts part of my divided soul;
trapped and silent,
watching your life,
but sending no messages back to me.
His fur was rusty, and sharp bones touched the skin once cushioned.
He purred when spoken to, and came when called for meals;
but chewing was too much for him.
He curled up in the shower tray to sleep,
grumbling if we lifted him to use it.
He died so quickly when the needle was withdrawn:
fell over in a second.
A dead cat looks so different from one sleeping.
He lies beneath his favourite place
at one end of the garden.
Around him birch shrubs sink their roots;
in spring the birds will perch above him.
And he will watch them there, and dream.
A thought comes, full of undiscovered wisdom
But before I can hold it and learn,
Attention lapses,
Confidence fades,
The words scatter and drift away;
And the poem that called to light and understanding
Ends only as crumpled paper.