By John Grey
CAT IN THE MORNING
It’s dark out
as the cat takes up residence
on the sill of a wide open window.
The sparrows in the trees outside
don’t notice him
or, more likely, just don’t care
having established that he’s a house cat,
too domesticated,
too set in his ways,
too lazy to chase prey.
But then the cat yawns and the sun rises.
So he’s still powerful in that respect.
POINT REYES
Early May,
the waystation mudflats
are inundated
with sandpipers, godwits
and a squabble of
long-billed dowitchers,
all Arctic bound.
Grebe flocks wheel relentlessly
over the ponds
before settling, as one,
to feast.
Inland, small herds of
deer and tule elk feed.
Cliffs provide a rookery for heron
and their pine-tops
are full of screeching young.
Here,
life is a quirk
of its own clear fate.
Its joy is not to dabble
but sustain.
A GARDEN IN SNOW
Brushing away snow,
she uncovers the stone dog.
And its hare companion,
solid, steadfast, despite
the bitterness of winter.
Only the garden succumbs
to the heartless weather:
sunflowers slaughtered,
dahlias defeated,
tulips trampled,
rose-bushes ripped raw.
If there’s any fight left in them,
it eludes her gloved fingers.
Early March,
and it’s like looking in on children.
Some are still robust.
Most are memories.
John Grey is an Australian poet, US resident, recently published in New World Writing, North Dakota Quarterly and Lost Pilots. His latest books are Between Two Fires, Covert and Memory Outside The Head are available through Amazon.
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