seasonal

every year
at about this time
one of them would go
out of a silent accord
to the cupboard under the stairs
where the old sports gear
boxes of toys
decorations
and sundries resided

a few objects moved
a little space made
until the box was found
snug
among the festive decorations

out it would come
to be dusted clean
and placed with care
and due respect
on the small table
in the lounge

with a little ceremonial flourish
both of them
gathered close as both
participant and spectator
the lid
came off

a neatly folded
small package of fur
was carefully removed
and straightened

a button found
and activated
to trigger self-inflation

it made a small
pop
when it was done
and the sound of air moving
faded
then ceased

all that was left to do
in a ritual
developed between them
over many seasons
was to rub
and to soft the ears
between their fingers

gradually
a sound became audible
then louder
and unmistakable

purr-purr-purr-ing

pats
stroking
soft words of endearment
and encouragement

the seasonal cat
opened her eyes
and meowed

oh the joy

happy hours
of petting
of rubbing up against people
furniture
legs

then finally
a change
a look in the feline eyes
that was somehow
different

focused
hungry

again together
they opened the door outside
and led the way
to the laden trees

cherries
fat baubles of promise
and glow
juice and joy
suspended voluptuously
in their twos and threes

so nearly ripe enough
for the taking

so clearly
already being taken
for there
plumped as though
in nests of their own entitlement
were a satin bower bird
and a king parrot

the cat hardly glanced at the  birds
she knew

with a leap
she was astride the main trunk
of the first
ornamented tree

with another
she was near to the top

a squawking
a flutter
a small chaos

the birds were gone

they looked at each other
face lit with inner joy

such a satisfying moment
every year

the saving
of the cherries
by the seasonal cat

in a week
perhaps two
the cherries would be harvested
and the cat
once again at rest
in her box
beneath the stair

---

© Frank Prem, 2016

Poem #8: word is to image (in a letter)

060218

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