Go back

                                                                                                Peter Waring

   

 

Enter The Cat

But, look how the cat comes in,
(one hour late but no apologies),
to keep her appointment with the sun.

She’s languid, purposeful, entire.
Much as you might expect. Why, she’s almost
liquid. How she moves, her signature.

The Cat Lies Down

See, how she pours herself , a swirl,
into the oval pool, mixes with the yellow light,
thickens from the centre out, ends in a curl.

She has become a comma, now, she’s lost her
tail – a full stop. A still eddy in a stream of light. That’s all.
Except she breathes. Static bristles black fur.

A Comparison

Somewhere among the stars they say there
are black holes like this. That pull whole planets in - whole
Suns their heat and light. But she is - here.

Exit The Sun

Out through the window glass, the sun retrieves
its light, recoils into itself, waves or parcels, whichever, both.
Smoke to embers, worker bees to hives.

It drains away - crosses neighbours’ fields and into
hollows - washes each townland’s colour through the next – Ballylumford,
Magheramorne, Inver, Rashee, Raloo.

The Cat Stretches

The cat uncoils. See how she rises up, yawns
through whiskers - spreads her half-sheathed grey claws.
Makes ‘pi ‘. Rocks on short forelegs, long hinder ones.

Exit The Cat

The big ash tree drops patterns, light and dark,
on the sun room roof. Summer? Left by the side door,
like the cat. Its tail end view a questionmark.

 

 

Sleeping in Church
 
I push the door and step into two great
cubes of air. Some of this will fill the mattress.
( I hum 'Oh, Peggy Gordon' - a hundred sucks
and blows. Flicked, it rings. The church air sings.)

Then daylight recesses, one by one,
the high windows - a slow fade of minor chords.
Tonight, I've lost the trapped fly's drone
which kept me company, and found instead

the pitch-pine ceiling's metronome. And that's?
A flutter at the glass. Whispers like soft
plaster falling. A bat's awake. It's path criss-crosses
my torch's beam. I'm left to hunt for words.

   

                                                                                                © Peter Waring

triple rule

Loch Raven Review Winter 2005 — Vol. I, No. 2
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