It Was a Sunday Lunchtime

It was a Sunday lunchtime When my son's voice I heard Mum may I please keep him In surprise at him I stared He held a tiny kitten It's head against his chest Mottled brown, grey and white His fur, in alarm, a crest My son with eyes of sepia brown Pleaded his cause to me "I've found him in the garden above our sycamore tree" "He must belong to someone", so saying I stroked it's fur "Try number forty one" "I did, but no-ones there" The kitten surveyed my kitchen With eyes of wedgwood blue He struggled to be put down Then gave a plaintive mew "He probably wants milk" So my son into action flew He commandeered the milk bottle Then the fridge for tomorrow's stew The kitten circled expectantly Shadowing every movement made Then as if a connoisseur of food He surveyed the spread we laid Anticipating his instinctive relish We exchanged looks of glee After casually sniffing it, with nose aloft He skipped out to the sycamore tree.