Please turn the heat on, now mum,
The year is growing older
My eyes are tired and I’m hot wired
To know when it gets colder.
Please turn the heat on, now mum
And make me up a bed;
It’s not time yet, but you can bet
I’ll need to rest my head.
Please turn the heat on, now mum
My dear, I would be grateful;
And whilst I wait I’ll meditate
And eat another plateful.
A cat glances through the dusk at snowflake-
beasties teasing past her shallow window slumber.
Catching the flakes in a fish eye’d
dream frenzy, she
eats the tamed indoor air and almost
falls from her winter seat.
Gathering composure,
her body arcs and she glides
into the kitchen to investigate,
jumping effortlessly onto forbidden
kitchen surfaces,
looking for amusement more than
meat.
Now bored and restless from a day
on window watch,
perhaps, she thinks, I will venture out.
Quietly does it through the flap,
risking the cold, ears flattening;
she picks her way down the hidden path
then onto the gate, snow melting
under her warm belly.
Very soon she returns to the house,
walking in her own deep pawprints,
exonerated from hunting duties,
yearning for a cosy blanket;
zest for comfort supplanting other instincts.
Winter-thin windows:
wafers for Snow Queen banquets.
Draughts whisper treason.
aplaceforpoetry 