My touch –
I am sure she feels this –
is worshipful,
telling this deaf cat –
as my voice would
if she could hear it –
she is cherished, admired, adored
beyond reason – although
there are reasons.
The reasons are many and good,
as I hope my touch conveys.
There is the sheen of her fur
catching the sunlight, and
its silken feel under my hand.
The curve of her tiny head,
or loving paw.
The sound of her purr.
The trustful nudge of her brow.
I could go on and on
but she has woken
and called me to play,
rattling down the passage
on loud little feet,
confident I’ll follow.
(I know my role in this game;
she has trained me well.)
I must lumber after.
I must rub her tummy
as she stretches and writhes
on the sunroom carpet.
I must dangle pink threads
(which used to be shoelaces
from a pair of striped sneakers)
for her to chase and catch and let go
and leap again after. Then I must carry her
to sleep on the soft rug on my bed.
She is my most important
responsibility. I live
to look after her, to make sure
she is well, safe and happy.
She is the centre
of my small, elderly world,
my world shrunk to essentials.
At this time of my life, I know
the essentials are love and touch.
Another cat poem! Which again I'm sharing with Poets and Storytellers United – in this case for Friday Writings #19, where Magaly advises us: 'It's important to have a twinkle in your wrinkle' and invites us to be inspired by this thought. She does mean the sort of wrinkles that come with ageing – which I certainly have! And my cat, Poppi, always puts a twinkle in my eyes.
