They say
all cats are grey
in the dark.
Not mine, she's white.
She's not mine, just visits,
at night.
She's there on the shed,
Haunting, haunted,
Stock still, sudden dread
A human?
In her garden?
At night?
Spectral
as fence sentinels,
concrete posts,
pillars of silence,
but the coming of night
is anything but quiet.
In rippling drone the traffic,
Dopplers and passes;
fading lament,
a memory of childhood
and summers spent
in the shadow of the M4.
Summer-night soundtrack,
from weeks at my nan's
a motoring lullaby,
and lives passing by.
A long time ago
and nothing to show,
so she wanders away
my cat that's not grey.
