The Immortals

 

 

My neighbour tends to buy me plaques

ornamental garden ones

metal versions of the creatures that stalk my garden.

 

There’s the pink cat on the back fence

paw perpetually  poised 

but doomed to never catch its prey

 

And below him the butterfly pinned

in seasons’ rusted hues, wings extended at full span

graced to ever evade pink cat’s maw.

 

I have added to these a quartet of cats

in a neat row but facing backwards

tails curled for an adventure never to be embarked upon

 

Much like Yeats' birds of hammered gold

eternally endeavouring

to keep that drowsy emperor awake

 

All this straining futility, immortal as it is,

is enough to remind me to savour

this morning’s breakfast tea and toast.

Copyright 2024 Cathy Leonard All rights reserved

Musings

 

 

I do think about the fact

that these trees will still be here

the day after I die

and all these young people

who outstep me on my daily walk.

 

“Just wait!” I mentally call after them

 as they charge the inclines in top gear.

“Your time too will come.”

 

But I will not be here to see that-

for I will either be six feet under

my flesh feeding the wildflowers,

the anemone and lady’s mantle

 

Or I will be ashes

some at least to be scattered

on the West Coast of Ireland

where the Atlantic flings itself into Derrynane Bay-

 

And though I have not yet decided

on burial or cremation and time is running out

I have romantic notions either which way I go-

 

And after all this morose browsing

I determine to drink less wine, eat my five-a-day

and circumnavigate the park one more time

but at a much faster pace.

Copyright 2024 Cathy Leonard All rights reserved