Black cat.

He stalks as though it were the veld,

claws unsheathed, yet lightly held;

hugs the ground, then still unseen,

he pounces, and I hear the scream,

the taking of a final breath,

the certainty of sudden death.

What manner is this beast I see?

unblinking in his savagery,

the vestige of a different age

contained in one swift blur of rage,

as life drains from the little bird,

that all the summer I have heard

sing out in lyrical content;

so happy, though it knew its time

was lightly lent, the same as mine. 

But would it profit us to change?

attempt to tame and re-arrange,

the hunter's cold and hooded stare

that says, 'what do you really care?

for you are worse, far worse than me,

on this you cannot disagree;'

And in his eyes I see the truth,

that man and beast walk hand in hand,

entwined in all but circumstance;

and though our savagery is cloaked  

we are but seven leagues; no more, 

from when we marched in step before;

Still near enough, so all may know,

how close our heaven, to hell below.

Reviews

[Chris Shaw]

It's hard to stomach isn't it? P***y cat purring, nudging up to you with wet kisses, and then the other side. The cruel, razor sharp claws. The determined hunter and the damage to those little feathered delights. Breaks your heart. I have had fledglings deposited on the doorstep. One of our cats robbed a blackbird nest over a week. Left it empty he did. All those presents for us. Fledglings in their half made vests. And then there is the human species, and the less said about their savagery the better. Great poem Beccy.

Chris

[NotUsinganymore]

Very nice poem, we all are selfish beings who will trample on others for the good of themselves.