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Ken Jones

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Haibun: A Requiem of Owls

Dead cat
the warmth of his fur
where she hugged him close

Bony and feather light, his seventeen feline years were the equal of some ninety human ones. Once a mighty hunter, he would release water rats, squirrels and other big game into our bedroom - and then lose interest. At other times he was moved by a modest piety:-

Grateful as always
beside the shrine
a headless mouse

But for all that he was a serious and gentle beast. Now, suddenly and peacefully, he has gone. Those eyes - the deadest things in a dead creature.

Noragh goes in front, bearing the cardboard box. I trudge behind with mattock, spade and lantern. Over a mile of rough going in December twilight. Irreverently a schoolroom favourite comes to mind: ‘Not a drum was heard, not a funeral note, as his corpse to the ramparts they carried.’

Full moon up over the ridge: we pick a clearing in the ginger bracken. I stroke his ears, silken cold as always. Noragh walks up and down with him, crooning the tunes that made him purr. No rocks nor roots - his grave deepens with awful ease. We wrap him in a shroud of yellow cotton from some Indian bazaar and lower him into the earth.

Requiem of owls -
on our hands
soft loam

Incense drifts above new-laid moss. Moonlight flashes on three stones of milky quartz. Now a chill mist creeps down the mountain. Tears freeze.

 

Page(s) 47

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