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.
Copyright © Theresa Stephens | Year Posted 2014
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