Eulogy for a cast-off

 

It was a shock to see it there

my old pal hanging

on a for sale rack in the charity shop

fingered and flicked by any passer- by.

 

I thought of cattle marts

and felt a pang of guilt

given that I was the one

who ultimately put it there

 

Relegating it to the  has-been pile:

a large plastic Homestore and More bag

you know the type

you probably have one

 

But that was months ago

and I hadn’t expected to see it again…

There must be a backlog of applicants,

like the one for driver permits,

 

Necessitating long waits in limbo

before reaching the processing stage.

The dress had been given a good makeover

I’ll say that for the women who managed its transition-

 

For there it was like a magician conjuring up

mis-spent summers, flouncing and flirting along sandy

shores and barbeque soirées

its burgundy folds kissing youthful limbs

 

And therein lies the rub and to misquote Houseman,

For of my threescore years and ten

Sixty- nine will never come again.

I was doing the dress a favour- really-

 

But still I felt the pang of guilt

remorse, regret, even grief

so much so 

that I went and bought it back....

Copyright 2023 Cathy Leonard All rights reserved.

Poetic Debut

 

There’s a kind of poetry that’s making

its debut these days. One that doesn’t necessarily

hold figurative language or extended metaphors

in its repertoire, that leaves words like

translucence out of it, that eschews stanzas

and the old poetic double act, 

alliteration and onomatopoeia,

and it’s title will be universal enough-

like Seeing my dead mother in Tescos

or The boy who nearly won the  Texaco Art competition.

Needless to say rhyme will probably not perform either

though it may sneak its way into the show by means

of, dare I say, backstage manoeuvres like internal resonance,

and hopefully there will be an overall theme which 

though it ambles from line to line

will culminate in a climax and evoke  

just one ah moment of epiphany

before resolving into a neat

or not so neat denouement

which you, and perhaps even the poet,

may not have foreseen…

 

Copyright  2023 Cathy Leonard All rights reserved 

December 2023-Morning Walk

 

The sky looks unwilling to give up the night

though the Tits, Great and  Blue, the Robin 

and the Blackbird too, have taken to carolling. 

It's the Song Thrush however that out sings the rest

like Hardy's Darkling, frail,gaunt and small 

tweeting in the century.

Here Christmas lights are glowing on a lone standing yew

and I think of Peace on Earth and Goodwill to All Men anew,

a long shot if I were a punter these days.

But Santa’s post box is waiting to make wishes and dreams come true

and there’s the sudden bike skid of a kid on route to school

with a letter in his hand bent for some far off land.

 

I hope he gets his wish and maybe our wishes too

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=G53oH-MI9qU- The sound of song thrush

https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/44325/the-darkling-thrush

Hardy's poem was published on 29th December 1900. Originally titled The Century's Deathbed.

Copyright 2023 Cathy Leonard All Rights reserved

Kitty trouble

 

What is it about birds 

trapped in your kitchen

(by the agency of, in this case, your cat,)

that when you kindly oblige

 by locking up the predator

 and open the kitchen window

instead of freedom, 

the thrush opts for vigorous  thrash

against the wall, 

against the ceiling, 

against the tileback

shedding in the process 

a shower of wing feathers,

dusty grey-brown, pale fringed,

so light they're barely discernible 

to the touch.

 

You know what you need to do 

but there’s a reluctance

to grasp this pale buff underside

these frail pink legs 

and you’re perhaps a little wary

of this small, sharp uptilted beak

So you grab a tea towel instead

swaddle the bird in its folds

and marvel at the stillness-

the lack of struggle

only a tiny heart throb 

in the palm of your hand.

 

Once outside,and unwrapped,

 you expect flurry 

but instead it sits dazed

startled perhaps 

by the prospect of flight

and so you leave it there 

and wish it God speed

and keep the cat in 

for the foreseeable future

just in case…

Copyright 2023 Cathy Leonard

What's in a name?

 

What’s in a name?

 for Pepe

Doing my usual round of the park I come across it

the brass plaque with your name etched in it

and I’m thinking about all the people who will wonder

who you were,  and what you did to deserve

this immortalisation on a city park bench

where you will be privy to

the silence of lovers

the reminiscence of elders

the tongue click and chin wag of the motley

the whispers of the lonely

the cycle of seasons from leaf burst

to fruit to husk to ground

The writer will invent a new persona for you

a sea captain perhaps sporting a neckerchief

(you did wear one of those)

with the addition of a wooden leg and a sailor’s pipe

roaring, “Fair winds and following seas” to passers by

and as the years scan by few will remember

that you were a retired black labrador guide dog

who, once relieved of his altruism,

ran riot in the park

Copyright 2023 Cathy Leonard All rights reserved

 

The Search for Samarra

 

After reading Billy Collin's Reaper

I look up the meaning of Samarra

which takes me on a long Google search

through centuries and cultures and possibilities-

for it's a place, a mountain, a girl's name,

a garment worn by victims of the Inquisition, 

(I stall on that one)

the name of a novel based on a play by Somerset Maugham

(and here I hit the mark)

and finally arrive to where I knew I would end up-

(given Billy's allusions)

to an appointment with Death...

But while his response is to admire, while he can,

the red barns and green sloping fields

on his way to lunch at Racoon Lodge

my imagination takes a darker turn

or more specifically to the choice

(if I even have one)

between burial or cremation

perhaps favouring 

the slow process of decomposition

to the sudden shock of incineration

(in the hope that I won't notice it so much)

and that's when I recall 

Bob Hope's death bed directive to his wife

(according to Billy)*

when facing the same dilemma

asking her to "Surprise me"..

Copyright 2023 Cathy Leonard All rights reserved

* See Cremation by Billy Collins in Whale Day published by Random House

See Link below to a blog for comments on Billy Collins and the poem Reaper

http://writingoverthethreshold.blogspot.com/2012/02/reaper-and-why-i-love-billy-collins.html

Falling Leaves Time

 

I definitely hibernate in winter so if I post more recipes, book reviews and knitting patterns than poems it is because I am not out and about as much...

 

Falling Leaves Time

 

 

All myths and legends have their Tartarus

their underworld journey

through darkness to rebirth

and regeneration;

Native American Indians call it

Falling Leaves Time.

 

In Newgrange we squatted in darkness

and waited for a shaft of light

that would herald the promise

of a new dawn.

So for now I will hold my feet

in my mouth and wait

for the coming of Solstice

Copyright 2023 Cathy Leonard

Mindfulness

Despite our cultural obsession with it

I'm not sure if we're really hard wired to live in the moment

 

I stand in the shower smelling, with mindfulness, 

the olive oil soap from Turkey, a present from

the trip I didn't do, my wrist being in a cast at the time

 wrapped in a plastic bag in this very shower-

And I mindfully recall later performing, in the very same spot, 

active and passive flexion, adduction, 

abduction and finger tendon glides 

in an attempt to straighten fingers bent claw- wise by the fall-

And still in the present moment my eye shifts 

to the Curl Manifesto on the shower  tray

 a gentle hydrating,moisture replenishing system

 which doesn't work any better than the high street brands-

And the  bottle of Sparkling Shower Spray Wipe

placed strategically in the shower tray

to encourage the cleaning of shower after use, 

which doesn't seem to work either-

Much like the task of me 

staying present

in the moment 

while having a shower-

And from my reading of modal mental imagery,

a concept I delved into last week 

to account for my dog's panicked flight 

every time she sees  a kid on a bike-

Well, I'm not really surprised...

Copyright 2023 Cathy Leonard All rights reserved

Overthinking

 

At 8 a.m. in the park I’m wishful thinking

that I were an artist who could paint that sky

with a palette of exotic sounding colours

prussian blue, ochre, cerulean blue hue...

and I’m wondering what that scent is

that clings in the air after the rain...

and I’m wishing that I had downloaded

that plant identification app...

and I’m trying to remember what it’s called

that ephemeral low lying mist

that seems to disappear like a mirage

as you approach it

something to do with radiation or advection

Google would know...

and I’m marvelling at how little I know

And so, I almost miss it-

the kid on the bike-

that jolts a memory in my black red setter’s head

triggers her multi modal mental imagery

namely negative associations with a phobic event

that sets her in tailspin flight

and I’m just in time to coax her out of panic mode

with a command of, “This way!”

that offers just enough counter conditioning...

which is lucky for me

 as I’ve forgotten to bring the treats

Copyright 2023 Cathy Leonard All rights reserved

The Call of the Wild

 

You have to go all the way out

if you want to feel it,

past the neat hedgerows,

the lively fuchsia and montbretia, 

past meadow sweet and purple loose strife,

the robin and blackbird tweets,

even past the higher pitched

chattering of the stonechat.

 

The vintage caravan park and the Shiphouse

mark the threshold, from hereon

it’s all gorse and heather and bare rock

and in the air the whistle of sandpiper,

and the sea crow swooping and soaring

and the Atlantic Wild reaching in,

fanning out, taking you with it.

 

Copyright 2023 Cathy Leonard All rights reserved

 

The Butter Road

 

I'd say the road hasn't changed much two centuries on, 

still moss-stoned underfoot, the ponies hooves must have sank 

in the ruts as we do now, booted and sandal shod as we are; I did warn

about the terrain but he's fond of the pilgrim way, though this

is no spiritual path, for here men slogged it out a week long  

from Mizen head to Skibbereen to the Cork Butter Exchange, 

 two firkins of salted butter, fifty-six pounds apiece, hay-roped 

on the ponies' backs, bound for Spain and the West Indies and beyond 

while we jostle a day trip backpack between us; water, chocolate, snacks, 

stop to frame straggling fuchsia, russeting fern, a cottage ivy and bramble 

bound, and the nearby so-called "idle bridge," a famine relief work folly,

 leading nowhere, shouldering failed hopes and bones, 

and listen to the same birds, the long tailed tit flitting from limb 

to limb, the rook setting up an almighty din as we, in passing, disturb 

those best left to rest in peace.

Copyright 2023 Cathy Leonard All rights reserved

https://roaringwaterjournal.com/2014/07/06/on-the-butter-road/

https://www.facebook.com/derekcullenoutdoors/videos/the-old-butter-road-near-schull-in-west-cork-i-am-now-headed-north-to-learn-drim/1704854893232019/?locale=ms_MY

Making the bed on Lamb's Head, Co Kerry

 

Lamb’s Head

 

I lay open these sheets to the red billed 

chough and the misnamed oyster catcher 

who never eats oysters

and the greenshank from 

far off climes

and the scent of heather embedded 

whin and the lap and roar of the sea 

off Deenish Isle

and the mist that lifts 

and descends all day long

its shutter opening and closing 

over the Skelligs

and the sun as intermittent as 

the mist and the waves

warming these stones marked 

by sheep’s foot and horse hoof 

and hare foot tread.

Copyright 2023 Cathy Leonard All rights reserved

Burial Practices

 I always mark the graves now

with a stone maybe,

not that I'm sentimental or religious

or afraid of digging them up 

when I plant Spring bulbs,

it's just that he's less likely

to remove a stone from the sepulchre,

as it were, and ferry away the body,

prompting theories of resurrection,

and more likely to leave the dead wren,

or fledgling whatever, just where it is

to rest in peace.

Copyright 2023 Cathy Leonard All rights reserved

The Missing TV Remote Control

 

We now know who was responsible 

for misplacing the TV remote control, 

the one we upturned carpets and couches for,

the one that prompted a complete makeover of the sitting room,

and then required a Spring clean of the whole house in September.

Various suspects were detained and questioned

but finally released without charge, evidence not being full proof,

flimsy in fact, like... he was the last one to use it... as far as we know,

or she has form in pocketing the remote control

on her way to the kettle, the door, on one occasion the theatre.

So after all the accusations and speculations a new one was ordered.

It arrived free gratis within twenty four hours from Sky, 

we should have done that sooner.

It was a couple of weeks before the original turned up-

in the garden, if you don't mind, more specifically

in the flowerbed beneath the sitting room window-

And then we knew who the culprit was-

a deft flick of paw through window 

left ajar would have done it 

not that he gives a damn...

Morning

 

Where would I rather be but here

in this room with its coconut twist painted walls

after an early morning ramble through woods 

still resonant with nocturnal shufflings,

the dog now dreaming at my feet. 

And nowhere else to be, no new alerts or notifications on my phone.

The street outside still empty of its diurnal rumblings

and on the wall two Ugo Baracco prints of Venetian canals

drawing me into portentous waters

and on the gable wall of the filing cabinet

posters of the bouquinistes on the banks of the Seine

laying out their wares

a panoply of stories and a silence in my head 

charged with the sound of stars ringing 

That transition time when tales run amok  

trailing me, pen in hand in their wake,

cupping with the other hand Barry's tea 

in a Back to Front cow mug....

Copyright 2023 Cathy Leonard All rights reserved

Weekly 5 word Poetry Challenge

 

https://www.obheal.ie/blog/five-words-poetry-competition/

The O'Bheal challenge is to make a poem out of a five word challenge. This week 3rd-10th October the words are:

red

remember

neighbour 

shatter 

cross

This is a weekly challenge with 5 new words presented every week.

See link above for details

and Good Luck

Lament for the Open Fire

 

We hear a lot today, and rightly so, about the dangers of the open fire. But it set me thinking about the benefits and the memories and the role of the open fire in our lives. Watching flames lowers our blood pressure and allows more oxygen to flow. But there are,of course, those particles that infiltrate the lungs..

So here's a rhymed poem, a sort of lament for the loss of the open fire....

When the hearth is gone where shall we gather

To sing a song, tell tales together?

Watch the embers rise and fall, 

Hear fire's stories short and tall.

Tales of caverns deep within

Tales of ships all set and trim

Rigged to voyage where only we can

Through imagery of fire and fan.

Recalling days of measling shins

From drying out socks and shoes and limbs

Steaming 'til our clothes are dry

A Turkish bath best not to try...

Or toasting bread over open flame

On a fine toothed fork fit for the game

Of holding firm 'til the job is done

Then butter and jam and finger licking fun.

Or sending those letters up to Santa's birds

Gathered on the chimney pot primed for the word

Winging them off to the far away Pole

Where the man himself is waiting to be told.

Or listening through the chimney, while snug inside,

To the howling and the whistling of the wind outside.

Or watching the embers dance as they rise

And pirouette and fall until their demise.

Or the burning of love in a fiery grate

When the love's stopped singing at any rate.

When the hearth is gone where is the flame

To ignite our songs and inspire our tales?

Copyright 2023 Cathy Leonard All rights reserved

Letting You in

Reading a poem often inspires me to write a poem and reading one today about how one poet tries not to think about a past lost love I was struck by the fact that I do exactly the opposite.....

Sometimes in sepia I let you in

a young man in a photograph

raising his hand as if to throw a stone-

it wouldn't have been a stone-

but half a century later

it could have been anything.

Sometimes I let in the moment

our eyes met and time faltered-

a lens refracting light

bending it to focus

catching us mid frame

releasing us on emergence.

Sometimes it's your voice I let in

on the other end of the line

giving me a line -something

about football practice or matches-

creating a gravity so strong

I can't evade it.

And sometimes- the last time-

 we are sitting across a formica topped table

your eyes panning beyond me

into the past or into the future

and me not asking why

Copyright 2023 Cathy Leonard All rights reserved

Michael Gambon reading Yeats

A great Soul has passed. Here is a beautiful reading of the Song of Wandering Aengus by W.B Yeats read by Michael Gambon.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cN_VPtGfsw0

Writing resources

Summer over and it's time to get down to submitting material to publishers. It's really hard to know how to go about this at the best of times but I came across a useful resource list which you may find helpful too.

 https://angelatcarr.wordpress.com/

Photos of Lucca

https://www.discovertuscany.com/lucca/

Catureglio, Tuscany, Italy

 

It would have been a pity to miss all this:

cypress topping Terracotta roofs,

going astray in a tangle of olive grove

lizard and agrimony underfoot

and hedge parsley and hartwort

butterflies skimming your lens.

And higher up, frescoed on the chapel roof,

the Virgin Mother radiating benevolence as she ascends into Heaven

And, beyond her, a soul sister of our very own Sile Na Gig

spouting blessings from a mossy fountain shrine

And under a hedge, facing forward and head intact,

a Child of Prague and a plea to heaven for a rainless wedding day.

I discover that this carved face in stone presiding over a fountain basin is called a mascaron. They were used symbolically to ward off evil spirits. See links

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Mascaron_(architecture)

Copyright 2023 Cathy Leonard All rights reserved

A Wedding Prayer

 

The Gathering

for Teresa and Rebecca and Sarah

 

On an Italian hillside they gathered

the scent of lemon, the brush of olive branch

the sound of cicada ringing the air.

He had flown over a thousand miles to be there,

to be placed under a laurel hedge

to be petitioned as a century before

at a grandmother’s wedding

and at a mother’s wedding, decades later.

And so they gathered again, this third generation of women,

to ask for fair weather, fair wind and a rainless day

in the shadow of the Apennines, in the dusk, under a Tuscan sky.

Copyright 2017 Cathy Leonard All rights reserved

Background to the tradition of The Child of Prague statue

https://onefabday.com/child-of-prague/

To Write or not to Write a Poem

 

Well, you can read a poem instead

and marvel at the writer's skill

and berate yourself about your lack there-off

and hope that you will be inspired to emulate

Or you can sweep the crumbs off the table

with your new professional table brush

and imagine you are a waiter 

in, say, the Boulevard Saint Michel

Or you can rest your chin 

on the back of your upturned hand

in the mode of Michaelangelo's Thinker

and ponder the mysteries of life

Or you can meditate while pondering

and listen to the dog's tail thumping

the clock ticking ,a nearby crane swivelling 

its driver cursing

You can write a shopping list

a to-do list, a wish list

or check your emails,a sure-fire way 

of landing in a cul-de-sac

Or you can write a poem

about trying to avoid 

writing a poem

and simply don't edit it.

Copyright 2023 Cathy Leonard All rights reserved 

A daughter's request

 

You sent me to the Contour sale 

for the purpose of buying you new knickers.

Now it is no mean feat to purchase the above item

for somebody else, especially a size medium.

For it all depends on brand and nationality,

 French mediums being smaller than UK ones,

and so I had to hold each pair in mid- air

and imagine your girth fitting into them.

At times I turned to the woman

who was assiduously upending the pile

possibly restocking the fast dwindling bargain basket

for they were reduced to a fiver a pair.

And to be fair she bore my inquiries

with great composure. I didn't quite say,

"Do you think my daughter will fit into these?"

But my questioning veered in that  direction.

It was only when I asked about refunds

that she came clean and announced

that she didn't actually work there

that she too was bargain hunting

but in her case, thankfully, for herself...

Copyright  2023 Cathy Leonard All rights reserved

(Photo is of Skellig Michael and Little Skellig taken from Lamb's Head, Caherdaniel, Kerry)

To catch a Poem

 For the past two months I've been hugging my injuries, much to the detriment of my brain and spirit. So finally splint and orthopedic boot free I'm tramping through woods and fields in search of a poem, any poem...even a wee short poem....it's an idea to have pen and paper at hand...

A poem on a wing

 

It’s like catching a falling star

or beam of moonlight

a butterfly in the hand

or sunshine on your palm

It’s like  thunder rumbling

or lightning bolting

bird tail flashing

or rainbow arching.

If you don’t catch it

you might miss it

and it may not come again

Copyright Cathy Leonard 2023

Art inspired Poetry

 Looking for inspiration it's always an idea to visit a gallery.

Inspired by Ursula McGivern's Koi Jar

Nishikigoi

 

They call me the swimming jewel

and they say my name means love

and though I have evolved from common carp

there is nothing ordinary about me

for my skin is amber,azure,crimson,cyan,

syllables to savour on the tongue

and my gold and platinum scales shimmer even in deepest waters

where I trawl the pond‘s depth for sustenance.

On the surface I shimmy between water lilies

my barbed lip a warning to guppies and minnows, 

danios and mollies that darken my den. 

For I am an opportunist and will take advantage.

Overhead the heron and kingfisher circle my shadow

covet my balletic configurations, my patternings, my scalations.

while landward raccoon and weasel vie over me.

They say I am oily or muddy to the palate. 

They say I bring luck, prosperity and good fortune.

They say I am perseverance in the face of adversity.

They say I can morph into dragon.

But whatever they say  know 

that I can outlive you by a hundred years or so

https://www.millcovegallery.com/poets-meet-painters-2023

Copyright Cathy Leonard 2023 

Celestial Silence

 I don't know if it's just me but when I try to recall my mother's voice I fail. I remember Lily Loughran's and Maisie Taylor's, our neighbours, all now passed on to heavenly pastures,  but not hers.

Celestial Silence

 

I can’t remember the sound of her voice

except sometimes 

when I click my tongue at the cat

or talk dog speak to the dog.

Then I recall the same inane babble coming from her

as she stooped over Nicky, our half breed wire haired fox terrier,

the one she called after The Thin Man.

The series ran for most of my fifties childhood 

as did her infatuation with Nick Charles.

My father, who mostly read Westerns and Thrillers,

quoting Shakespeare, probably Falstaff, used to say,

”Never trust a thin man.”

 And though we mocked all her daft foibles

her Friday night teenage antics for a TV star

she was the celestial body by which we navigated,

determined our latitude, found our true North-

Yet I  remember all of their voices but hers.

 

Copyright 2023 Cathy Leonard All rights reserved

Sherlock Finale-Destiny Calls

Athos, Porthos and Aramis are a no show. Off swash buckling somewhere else no doubt...and it is a while before the window of  opportunity opens.Not speaking figuratively. Meanwhile I'm there counting those dratted magpies and jackdaws and blue tits and great tits and scratching off my days of incarceration on the wall. My kitty litter leg has disappeared but sharp pains and unexpected twinges now accompany my every move. My shaved flank is beginning to show stubble and night follows day seemingly ad infinitum while I'm cooped up here in the back hall... Then it happens.

There's a visitor staying and Mum is getting a bit distracted and one morning she forgets to close the window after her daily airing the cell caper. This is it. I mentally conjure up the most daring leap I can imagine and with a hop, skip and jump I am airborne. I hear a screech from the kitchen when she spots me dashing through the flowerbed, under the fence and out into the big wide world.

My trajectory comes to a sudden end when I feel a sharp pain in my back leg. I roll up into a ball and wait. Overhead I can hear them cackling.  A mob of them, an ambush. With my back to the fence I try to stave them off but they can smell my handicap and are in for the kill. It begins with the non contact swoop but progresses rapidly to beak snapping, pecking, dive bombing through to full frontal attack. Everything you've ever heard about magpies is true , they'd snap the tail off you.

Luckily our neighbour Rosy hears the din, storms into the fray and sweeps me up in her pinny.

Before you can say jack rabbit I am back in my cell and happy to be there. You could say I have found my forever home for sure...

                                                                POSTSCRIPT

So dear reader, I come to the end of my saga.I recovered completely in time from my injury. Well maybe there's a hint of a limp in my catwalk stride. But no more going walkabout for me. I content myself now strolling and patrolling between number 39 and 45 of our road. Between Mick's Barbecue Grill and Rosy's herbaceous borders, Dermot's back garden wall and our own overgrown flower bed. Plenty of action to keep me on my paws....at least for now...

Copyright 2023 Cathy Leonard All rights reserved

Sherlock Episode 11- The Cat in the Iron Mask

 

Following discharge I am to be confined to a cage for 6-8 weeks. Yes, you heard right…a cage!!

 

To be fair the cage is big enough to house a Bernese Mountain Dog and vet says it’s for my own good. Well, vet would say that! Mum looks like I’ve just been handed down a jail sentence, bless her, and concludes,”This will never work!”

 

And of course it won’t. I set up such a din once placed in situ that everybody’s head is done in after half an hour.

 

“Those plates in his leg will never withstand this,” advises Red.

“I’m not paying for another operation. That cat’s costing us a fortune.” From you know who.

“Can’t we just let him out for a while,” says my BF, Longfellow.

“Seriously…he’ll be jumping all over the place. Can you just imagine!” says Mum.

 

I certainly can. From the arm of the chair to the top of the couch, a leap to the table and hey presto out the open window. I have already done my surveillance and my plan of escape is in final draft stage.

 

I do have one problem.  My back leg feels like a bag of kitty litter and seems to have acquired a life of its own, post op. Someone said something about a nerve block and an ensuing numbness that would wear off eventually but in the meantime there it is, my plated and screwed back right leg, always swinging and dangling in the wrong  direction delivering punches to everything in its path.Good as a battering ram, hopeless for flight...

 

But I can still head butt the top of the wire cage and bounce myself off its sides.

 

“I have an idea,” says Mum.

The idea turns out to be what they call the back hall. A high walled corridor outside the kitchen with a half door exit to the garden. Yes, one of those thatched cottage rustic half doors you see in Irish post cards… there’s usually a donkey’s head hanging over it. But it’s a giant leap from ground level to reach that window, what with the bag of kitty litter dragging me down, and someone will have to get careless and leave the window open for me for I'm not going to do a heroic crash through glass aka Indiana Jones.

 

Meanwhile the corridor is an improvement on the cage, more like a proper prisoner's cell, and I can at least see the sky and count the magpies and stroke off the days with my claws like they do in the movies and pretend I’m yer man in the Iron Mask waiting for The Three Musketeers to arrive and spring me out of this jail house…

 

To be continued…

Copyright 2023 Cathy Leonard All rights reserved

The Bend in the Road

Why am I always looking backwards

when from around that bend 

I can already smell salt in the air

and hear the screech of gull 

and feel the scorch of sand on foot

and cold rush of sea strike from toe to nape.

I could be savouring that

But instead here I stand

my face to the road already travelled

consumed by the wrong turns taken

the ensuing damage done, 

the time lost, the regret,

when I could at least be teetering

on the whim of something new.

Copyright 2023 Cathy Leonard All rights reserved