She lives..
Mostly in the garden now,
Heavy with her years
And summer-heat,
Sleeping
Mostly…..
She walks occassionally
From one favoured spot
On to the next,
Seeking more shade
Or greater comfort, nesting
Amongst the cool grass
Or secluded in the rusted skeletal cylinder
Of a bottomless incinerator
Weed engulfed under leaf-spread…
She eats, infrequently…
A mouthful, perhaps two
And drinks sporadically…
Skeletal she is,
Beneath her mottled black and tan –
Long fur still soft,
But growing lank and lustreless…
This is not age alone,
She suffers… without complaint…
Curls listless in my lap,
Or purrs awhile against my hand…
Tomorrow, dear…
We shall seek help…
The sorrowful trip to Those Who Know,
Who Heal – or not…
And then, I fear, a gentle end,
Still in my hands, my care…
Oh, do not leave me,
Gentle, loving soul!
Stay…
And yet, I cannot begrudge you
Surcease from pain…
©Veronica July 2017