For if that which is done away was glorious, much more that which remaineth is glorious

Wednesday, 6 November 2013

Sorrow Not Sweet

For some reason our dog - the softest brute whom I have never seen go for the kill - was uncontrollable around a kitten that I brought home last week. After some hopeless attempts to make him less murderous, we, sore of heart, gave away the kitten to an eight-year-old girl on her birthday. We simply didn't have the space and time to make it work. It was surprising how little time it took for us to become very, very attached. Sometimes prose is not enough.

To a Kitten Named Fly: a Farewell

What muse whispered your name to me, what sprite?
  Too apt for you, whose crazed and dizzy dance
  Led hearts along the fleet path of your tail,
  Your ringed and ginger tail, hearts rested in
  Two amber eyes. Too apt, o clever cat
  Who conned well how to slip in cosy beds
  And make us answer to those gentle orbs
  Pleading for milk or fish. Too apt - for, raised
  Alas! a quiv’ring bloody eager rage
  In a mild dog who ne’er till now so shook
  To racial strings and old, you dared not stop,
  But flew, dear Fly, away. Five days we laughed
Then dropping salty tears, all, down to your bed
We gave and could not watch your parting head.

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