Ann Drysdale
Il faut qu'il cultive son jardin
Amid the torn upholstery of dead birds
The cat goes carefully about his work.
Digging in overstated pantomime
He plants his small, soft, aromatic turds.
These, in his wisdom, he is sure will feed
Attenuated turf and wilting weed
Till, in the fullness of slow-funnelled time
A jungle will arise to serve his need
Wherein things small and succulent may lurk
To satisfy his gentlemanly greed.
It will obliterate the simpering sun
And make a dark Valhalla for his soul
When time takes its inevitable toll
And all nine linnet-lunching lives are done.
Page(s) 42
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