Some more attempts at sonnets
The cat is a composite of a number of cats we have had over the years. The squirrel was one of several seen in the Castle Park Colchester this spring and may have been cousin to the one who stole my bulbs last autumn from the lawn at home where I had laid them out for planting!
A tiny ball of fluff curled in my hand
And later found asleep in someone’s hat;
A wide-eyed waif, with every hair on end,
Becomes a cunning thief, an acrobat
Of infinite finesse. And then at dawn
Bringer of fledgling birds under the bed,
And sixpence-sized new frogs in early morn.
The chirps of the tortured as blood is shed
Sound our red-in-tooth-and-claw alarm.
Unscrupulous, he then requires his food,
Purring and nudging, turns on all the charm:
Commander of the household, he is shrewd.
Now my old man still comes to meet and greet,
But spends most of his days asleep at my feet.
Squirrel in Spring and Autumn
He darts among the daffodils of March,
With jerky moves like a mannequin,
Then sprints back up the trunks of oak and larch-
A game of hide and seek he’ll always win.
Sudden he dropped, straight as a line of plumb,
A pirate seeking edible booty;
He snatched the bulbs, curled against his thumb,
That the gardener meant to plant for beauty.
Over his back there streams a bushy tail-
Such a blatant banner of war, think I;
And there I am, reflected without fail,
In the knowing depths of his nut-brown eye.
I tempt him with bark chippings in cupped hand.
Conned, he comes; furious, he flees outplanned.
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