It was a quiet thing, one that crept and curled and balled.
Not the kind with spines, but with fur instead.
Sometimes the fur was hospitable to leaves and mud,
others it was sleek, rosy and full...
Perhaps it had been there, waiting, out of sight
As silent as Death's Child's breathing -
You, I know, would understand the loftiness of its room-tasting nose
and the cordial colour of sunlight in its eyes.
