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A shadow streaks across the grass
and drops to stalk through clumps of fern.
Tail quivers high, paws bat the air
where just that second a fly had passed.
Undaunted, queen of this domain,
she struts her rounds,
till smell of rain
impels her to a drier realm
of willing slave and bounteous bowl.
In sated bliss, tongue pinkly combs
through midnight silk; a cold-nose kiss
says thanks before the final climb.
Then sunk deep in a duvet den,
dreaming a life of mouseful gain,
she slumbers curled around her tail,
a furry, purring liquorice whirl

Krys Bottrill, © 1999

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