On Establishing What Death Means to Cats
This is our cat, all collected up,
Cushion plump, on the
Silver Salver given to
My grandfather on his marriage,
To ‘the iron fist in a velvet glove.’
The cat reflected in the half polished
Mappin and Webb tray
Knows that she has transgressed
And feels all the better for it
By the look of her.
Although she rules softly in her old age.
On the reverse of the wedding gift
Everlasting signatures,
From shipmates – some posh, some mundane – all gone
To Davey Jones’s locker or the cancer ward.
Jack, the groom, was indeed a sailor
Though I only knew him when in port,
Waiting patiently for death
To decommission him.
His last words were
‘I’m sorry to keep you waiting.’
But before then we would read of
‘Alan Quartermaine’ and
‘The Mountains of the Moon’.
Cat’s cannot wait for anything,
Not even death, of which they
Know nothing, always assuming
There is nothing to know.
They put my grandfather
In a box; I hope it smelt to him
Like the Cedars of Lebanon.
