SPRING

Where’s Pussy this morning?
Why, the old girl’s out courting.
You’re joking.
Her courting?
Toothless, mangy, Ancient of Days.
She’s had it!

Well, look on the wall there,
Look by the gate
And see, down by the rubbish heap . . .
Toms!
Four of ‘em,
Crouching, smouldering,
Watching, waiting,
intent, ecstatic.
Talk of Spring!
It’s all there for them,
On that scrap of backyard grass
Amongst the weeds and the crocus buds.

"Where’s Pussy?" you ask.
That’s where she is. There --
Disporting herself in the sunshine,
Twisting her ropey, yellow, lean old body,
Weaving, curving, stretching, rolling . . .
Shooting, challenging gleams from upside
down, slitted green eyes
At the wicked, watching, mouthwatering
old warriors
Who wait for this drained Delilah’s delights.