The cat

My beautiful angel, my daughter,
I am sad as well that the cat died,
and I remember her too.

The moon keeks in
through your half-drawn curtains
and you crouch at the end of your bed.
Tonight you are a wolf! Together we howl,
while imaginary snakes and cheetahs prowl
around your bedroom floor.

Your heart is an eye: it sees far;
farther than I can see, past every star,
and every astronomy I know surrenders to its laws.

And then I want to weep. The tale you seek
this bedtime is your current favourite night time repeat,
the cat.

I tell you what you already know, my beautiful angel.
All that lasts is love. Everything changes, except love,
and even if love is all we can remember
once everything else has faded, or changed, or been forgotten,
even if we can't recall the sight or sound or shape or smell,
as long as we felt love, then what we loved will last forever,

even in old age, when we can no longer tell the tale,
and even when those we told have become enfeebled
and themselves have grown old,
as long as we felt love,
then what we loved will last forever.

Our hearts are created as vessels
where love can enter and take shape
and they break to set it free.
Love was waiting for you before you felt it,
and when it touched you it connected you to everything
and in the end love is all that's real.

I promise you your love for the cat is sung
by simple unwitting birds
thousands of years from now
which the cat hears
as she awakens once more
in the garden where she fell asleep
so long ago
and goes on patrol
with all the snakes and cheetahs
of your imagination.


(In memory of Vespucci, a much loved cat)