The Fear

Indagari can not be alone any more. The fear is there. It is a small thing, like a wizened child. It crouches on furniture and lurks behind curtains. It touches things: examining them, sniffing them, sometimes quietly tasting them. It is always quiet, apart from the furtive rustling, and never in the way. Indagari acknowledges its discretion, but the way it lingers is oppressive and eventually, chilling. Indagari only works out why that is after a few days. A mirror betrays the fear in the act of reaching when Indagari's back is turned, touching a shoulder-blade, and softly insinuating surprisingly betaloned wizened fingers deep into Indagari's back. Indagari feels a new coldness, a new sickness, as the fingers draw back a tiny sliver of heart which the fear nibbles at like a mouse at a corncob, its thin-lipped mouth scarlet with Indagari's stolen heart-blood.

The fear rides on Indagari's shoulders from room to room and sleeps on the pillow at night. Its prurience when Indagari is in the toilet or shower is disturbing.

The fear is an unpleasant companion, but for Indagari, now, it is better than the silence.

Song for Ulysses

She gave me love
She took me in her arms and made me whole
She gave me love
I never wanted anything else but to be in her embrace
There in black and white.

They took me away
They put me in with the mad and dangerous souls
They took me away
Ten years and more I suffered alone
There in black and white.

But I prevailed
My ruses killed my liege’s enemies
And I prevailed
When the walls were burned I realised all I'd won
There in black and white.

I strove for home
I wandered long and lost though I was found
I strove for home
It took me time to understand how much I’d won
There in black and white.

She took me back
She took me in her arms and I was whole
She took me back
Gone was youth, and gone was passion, but our love remained
My black was streaked with white.

The grass is soft
Sun dappled shadow softly warms my head
The grass is soft
I wish I could hold her in my arms to console her for her love
Lost in black and white.

She gave me love.

The old cat II

It wasn't where I looked
It wasn't in any room
Or in the yard.

The other cat didn't have it
Nor did my people.

It didn't come in tins or packets
It didn't come at night
It didn't come when I called.

I had a hole where it should have been that I couldn't fill.

But I think I know where it is now
And I don't have to look any more.

Gomez, the Mad Cat of La Mancha. 1991? - 14 November 2007

The old cat

It's colder than it used to be.
The sun takes longer to warm my bones.
Laps are not as comfortable.

The birds are faster and tree branches are higher.
It's too much bother to climb them.
I don't go out because the dogs are so much fiercer.

I sleep a lot. Sometimes I lose track of what time of day it is.
The food they give me doesn't taste of much.
I keep forgetting what I was doing, and I can't find whatever it was in any room.

There used to be more cats around here.
I can't smell them - they've gone somewhere I can't follow.
I hope it's warmer there than it is here.

When I sleep I dream of warmer sun, slower birds, the other cats.
But I keep waking up.

Waiting for the end of parrots

Leaving work, Arioch passed a parrot. It was on the ground amid the shrubs growing in perpetual shade by the office building's entrance. It eyed Arioch wearily. Arioch walked more softly so as not to disturb it into shrill chattering flight, and it did not do so. Arioch felt momentarily smug and privileged to come so close to the bird.

The next afternoon the parrot was there again, or perhaps still there. Arioch wondered idly if it were waiting for someone. In fact this turned out to be true.

The next afternoon the parrot was under the shrubs again, but this time it was obviously dead. It lay on its back, its weary eyes now milky with the sights they now saw. Arioch noticed its belly-feathers were a mess of mud - or dirty dried blood. Car? Cat? Collision? Cancer? No answers.

Arioch realised the parrot had been dying there in the shrubs next to the office entrance, for at least several days. Smug privilege soured into complicit guilt. Even though it was now too late to care or intervene, Arioch stopped, picked up the parrot and carried it reverently to a nearby bin. The body was light, cold and stiff. Its bright feathers were ragged and dirty. All its parroty animation had fled. Arioch disposed of its discarded husk thoughtfully, miserable that the bird's suffering had been prolonged by inaction.