THE BIRD-FANCIER


          Up to his shoulders
          In grasses coarse as silk,
          The white cat with the yellow eyes
          Sits with all four paws together,
          Tall as a quart of milk.

          He hardly moves his head
          To touch with nice nose
          What his wary whiskers tell him
          Is here a weed
          And here a rose.

          On a dry stick he rubs his jaws,
          And the thin
          Corners of his smile
          Silently mew when a leaf
          Tickles his chin.

          With a neat grimace
          He nips a new
          Blade of feathery grass,
          Flicks from his ear
          A grain of dew.

          His sleepy eyes are wild with birds.
          Every sparrow, thrush and wren
          Widens their furred horizons
          Till their flying song
          Narrows them again.


           © James Kirkup, 2008




          Return.