The Lion Waits
Amongst the potted palms
And aspidistra’s leafed cover
The lion paces
Eyes agleam
The only light
In a darkened foot well
Alert to sound
Body poised
Ears cocked, listening.
Laughter, merriment
An echo in the cavernous hall
A sponge, wettened, waiting
Drip, drip, drip
Inaudible to all but he.
Giggles, excited chatter
The sound of footsteps
On wooden floors, clatter
Breezy “byes, good luck”
Doors closing, with catch click
His victim, chosen prey, descends
The lion from cover pounces
Sponging dreams
He aims straight for the jugular
As tears of black mascara rain
Leaving greasy trails
On water marked taffeta.
The lion retreats
His maiming done
Leaving heaving prey
In pools of lost dreams.
Through his jungle
He seeks to find
A watering-hole, to quench
His now ravening thirst.
This king in a domestic jungle
Of spoilt memories
And lace picked holes
Family proud
His killing done
And just the drip, drip, drip
As leafy plumage
Conceals.
©EMG04
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