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Catherine Wilson Poem
ABOUT A CAT
They found you at the bus stop in the bin.
scraggy mog with unmatched staring eyes.
The soaking fur made bones show through your skin.
How could we all resist your plaintive cries.
We brought you home and loved you from that day
A tortoiseshell with absurd velvet ears.
Remember how we taught you how to play
And climb the trees to allay all your fears
For eighteen years you clung to every heart.
Our feline friend from destination 'bin'
We sorrowed when your time came to depart
And watched as moggy heaven let you in
Sleep well my friend beneath your favourite tree.
There's a hole in our hearts where you should be.
catherine wilson
2018
MY FIRST ATTEMPT AT A SONNET
Copyright © Catherine Wilson | Year Posted 2018
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Catherine Wilson Poem
The Kingfisher.
This morning we are doing long division.
Yesterday was for freedom.
Long division is for today.
Yesterdays kingfisher is for tomorrow because
Long division will not wait.
Brilliant feathers gleaming in sunlight.
He darted; swooped for a fish.
My pencil is short, broken; chewed.
A shining writhing minnow; tiny.
Tiny, without a chance.
Sunbeams stream through high narrow windows,
Where feathered tree -tops waver.
Why are they so high?
When did we do short division Miss?
Sharpen pencils for today's long division.
Wrong means rapped fingers.
Yesterdays brook rippled like warm silk across my fingers.
He is out there swooping and diving.
Whilst long division is what we are doing in here today.
When did we do short division Miss?
Brown classroom; awash with ink stained desks.
Scabbed knees tucked, doing long division, as
Bird sounds pour through high narrow windows.
Why are they so high?
Sunbeams sprinkled yesterday's brook with magic.
Eyes are down for long division today.
Shouldn't short division come first Miss?
Birdsong streams through high narrow windows.
Why are they so high?
Today we are doing long – very long division.
Catherine Wilson
9-3-2018
Copyright © Catherine Wilson | Year Posted 2018
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Catherine Wilson Poem
A PRIVY REMEMBERED
I remember the privy at the end of the path.
Its roof held together with cobwebs and lath
Twin seated it was, of old splintered wood
Quite why there were two was not understood.
Blistering paint on a handle free door
Crumbling bricks and a bare earthen floor
Neat paper squares on a bent rusty nail
Carefully torn from an old Daily Mail
Wintry days, air pungent and damp.
Heady fumes from a hot Tilly lamp.
Flaking whitewash in our hair,
Unknown creatures scuttling there.
We played hide and seek from this little room,
Chanting loudly in the gloom.
Sunbeams dancing through the gaps,
Then ran shouting, “Coming chaps”
Dark, misty evenings, full of eerie sound
Walking up the dewy path, odd rustlings abound.
Scary moonlit monsters lurking in the trees
My heart beating faster, a trembling at the knees
Relief to reach that room at night, the candles in their jars
Looking upwards to the roof and gazing at the stars.
Time to ponder, time to dream, a haven from outside.
Pure magic, in my memory-this place I used to hide.
Catherine Wilson
written 1979
Copyright © Catherine Wilson | Year Posted 2018
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