Runcible Spoon

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New Dawn


In the pale dawn a yowl wakes him,

a whirr of fur clawing at the bedroom door.

“Blasted animal” he mutters, reaching

for his thread-bare dressing gown.


In the blue kitchen, he stumbles, knocks

his hip on the cutlery drawer, swears

he’ll never have a pet again.  He stabs

the opener at the jagged tin, heaves


at the fishy smell.  The cat purrs,

weaves a cradle between his stringy calves.

“Out of my way nuisance”, he moans.

In the grey-turning, gold-turning light


he sighs, sips his tea, thinks of his wife

how she tenderly loved; stoops

and strokes the cat’s knotted spine,

notices for the first time how frail he’s become.