Well, WTF?
What else of startled shock is there at
screaming maelstrom of a feral furnace,
squall anguish,
death-defying ripping rage -
"Slash your windpipe, Asshole!" -
tear the wind into curses,
mean long growl
right outside back door.
At root
that dratted neighbour's dog
has startled Street-Tom
trespassing on mine,
hurtled out of his door,
snout wham against the fence -
"Gotcha!"
Come on, Moggy!
There's a fence between.
Jack Russell shouts again!
He knows the lore
to set off that hysteria - Ha-ha!
beyond his teeth-snicked reach
beyond reprisal's nose-gouged score.
But the cat is taking it so badly - hurts to hear
the brutal histrionics of such utter fear,
scrabbling away now, thankfully.
The trundle of a bin being wheeled
offers a mundane end to all torn nerves.
But no! I hear the anguish and the shock rave on
the vicious hymn of offered violence to all
(that stands for our self-pity in the dark),
death under blank skies.
What on earth is going on?
I don't believe that dog would stay to fight.
It's only raw cat-misery I hear.
Out I go!
"WTF?" I say again to darkness, silence,
as the neighbour's just gone in, 'shnick',
taking her nasty minion with her.
No cat in garden, nor by locked back gate,
but a black bag
caught on the high chicken wire surround,
put up by my predecessor
(to stop the cats of course)
waves a little in the dead calm?
Whoah! Turns into a spitting ball of curse,
one foot caught inextricably.
"No. Kitty. No. You really need my help."
I rummage for the cutters but can find
only pincers - well, they'll have to do
and switching on my cellphone torchlight app
chair in arm, I saunter quietly out.
Maybe I am a cat-person,
so know there is no magic end to feral desperation
He's right at me with spitting demon face;
and though the wire is there for me, he'll tear
the pincers from my hands as I reach up.
"Fuck off and die, you monster!" sure he screams.
It hurts me sharp to see him twist round so
the foot being damaged more - I must!
I dare a snip to see if it brings trust.
He hangs still a second like dead game,
nothing to show how it must hurt the more
for all his weight is now but on two strands
I snip again. The wire gives -
he squalls a little while
that's all his growled complain
and waits the cut to sever our fates good.
There's no dull thud, runs down the fence and off,
to launch so fast with gravity he's gone
on three good feet,
leaving me shaken deep, and sorrier than he
for his pain and fear.
"Happy New Year,"
I say to the empty street.
YOU ARE READING
Greenclad.
PoetryIvy-jacketed, December oaks on road-borders shock their stark gestures at us now, through sun and sleet, that January will yawn at and February, propping eyelids, will desperately ignore, longing for blossom; and making do with the least of anything...
