A poem because my cat died. My cat that saw me into an empty house of an evening for ten years of workdays and sat with me on afternoon for eight years of children. I smashed some old teacups and it didn’t work, suspect you have to use the best ones.
Middle of Nowhere
Summer sky through green leaves suspended,
hammock swinging, bare foot and shoulder;
absent without leave from my own life.
Smashed pots lie quiet by the wall.
Birds sing verses of ordinary pleasures,
cars park in the street, children laugh;
the kitchen clock marks continual hunger.
A raven pours her blue eye over me.
Favoured notebook and blue pen by me,
tea cooling, the quiet house beyond;
this space too small for maps or legends.
Reason’s left me ringing empty.