From her position on the windowsill
she gives the garden her consideration.
Later, both the camellias and the ferns
will undergo a full investigation.
First, she will be a small domestic sphinx
unmoving on the carpet, enigmatic,
thinking: there was a fire here last night
and now it's gone. All life is problematic.
The second serious question of the day
is: where to sleep? Which bed or chair to grace?
The velvet spaces of the chesterfield?
Or should she seek a woolly resting‑place?
They sometimes leave (she thinks) jerseys on beds,
or there's the shawl spread softly on a chair.
Also a cupboard, full of fluffy towels
and gurgling darkness..maybe I'll go there.
She steps into the garden after lunch:
a meal she'd hoped might magically be prawns
but wasn't. She is philosophical.
It is the hour for stalking things on lawns.
Squirrels are jet‑propelled and every bird
annoyingly decides to fly away.
She races up a tree‑trunk, just to show
she might catch something, on some other day
and meanwhile, she'll adopt a watchful pose
on a convenient step, warm in the sun,
until her head grows heavy, droops and falls.
The work of sleepy cats is never done.
The moths come out at night. Then she's awake.
Their grey and blurring wings catch on her claws.
When they are still, she stretches, bends and yawns
and with a sharp pink tongue, tidies her paws.
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