THE AGEING CAT

She sits upright upon our slatted table
beneath azalea flames and poppies bright.
The birds above return to feeders stable
safe in the rose bush, yet within her sights.
She’s too old to engage her chase feline
on flying things — and we her voles decline.
In youth, the baby bunnies were her prey
on moorland she would catch them every day.
Like us, she lived a life of rural pleasure
discounting that we’d all slow down so soon,
forgetting that time’s piper plays the tune,
and yet we knew our homestead was a treasure.
Downsized to village life again, we stop —
recalling younger vibrance we’d forgot.