Last Days of the Black Cat: poem
By: Cathy Sky
Blackie, with your amber
Sweet as wild honey
Or soft morning rain —
Frail old lady,
Grey flecks salt your obsidian coat;
You are will itself in furry form.
A nudge or two on my bare feet,
You are a whisp, a brush past my calf.
Bellows – breathing
An effort for you,
It’s not long now.
The long grasses will whisper and part
The way clean and beckoning
You will enter
On small feet
Your black pencil tail tracing the air
In a tempo regal and calm,
Right as the sigh of leaves.