April 10th
Golden shovel poem number 3 from First Fig by Edna St Vincent
Tawny Cat
By the light of the moon I can see my
hand grasp the handle, an advent candle
flickers in the room, handle turns,flame burns
and beyond that, a tawny cat looks at
me with disdain,the glint of her eyes both
mocking and watchful. Is this how it ends?
In this room, barely lit, I wait for it
to happen, standing still, the lioness will
care not a jot, that I am really not
supposed to be here. She leaps! At the last
moment I move and slam the door shut.The
sound of her roar and my fright fill the night
As my terror abates, I listen but
no sounds, near or far, breath releases" Ah "
as with a soft sigh I contemplate my
narrow escape from the lion and my foes.
Tremor of hand slows as fear subsides and
I decide it's time to go, move slow, oh
so slow, need for escape, not alert my
foes. This nightmare ends, I must reach my friends.
My heart does a flit. The cat! Why was it
in that room at all? She lives there and gives
intruders a fright ! At last outside, a
feeling of freedom,escape, lovely
night, back with my friends in the pale moons' light
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