All day they lie like corpses on sills, in corners
And masquerade as dust.

Night falls. I find them fluttering
Under my cats’ paws, describing perfect circles,
Their dance enticing
The very thing they fear,
Those longed-for claws.

Death cannot come too soon for them, it seems.
Rescued, they return. Consigned to darkness,
Cling to the window-glass,
Pink eyes afire with lust, the Undead, craving
That final, fatal light.

 

 

Linda lives on a windswept island off the coast of Kent with a variable number of cats – currently twelve. She’s been writing poetry since the age of thirteen when she embarrassed her mother by getting a dreadful one published in the newspaper. It began ‘Spring throws bluebells in the sky…’

More of her writing can be found at La Tour Abolie