Well Guarded

Poetry Month, day 8


Well Guarded

My sanctuary on the hill

is guarded by angels,

and one small cat.

We lock the doors at night

and it's all silent –

but there are some things

only she can hear,

which the dark brings.

She startles suddenly,

raises her head

and stiffens her back.

Ears alert, her gaze

is fixed in one direction.

It can't be a ghost, I know.

She dispatched them (except for

those who are family) long ago.

Prowlers would alert

the neighbourhood dogs,

and no-one's barking.

So I'm thinking not burglar

nor dog. Perhaps another cat?

There's one down the road

who might roam. Summer's done,

so I'll rule out a cane toad.

All I can hear is the faint hum

of a car on the road further down

at the bottom of the hill. This

is not the city. Cars late at night

are few. But even so, it isn't

our street, can't be a threat;

no reason at all to go on alert. 

I tell her, "It's all right, my pet."

Whatever it is, it passes.

She lies down, relaxes, 

curls on her side, lets her ears

fall into repose, so much trust she has

that we are now safe. I'm sure

she must know the angels stand guard 

while she sleeps, and I sleep.

She has done her duty. Now it's time

to indulge ourselves, dreaming deep.

Trying a new form, the A L' Arora, prompted by "imaginary garden with real toads". (The form consists of at least four 8-line stanzas, with each stanza rhyming the 6th and 8th line.)