One Day

One day this cat will be too old
to nose up papers, flatten photographs,
pursue each fallen petal, relentless
as a bailiff.  One day
she’ll peg her thinner body to the floor,
not whine on windowsills, complain
high ceilings have no footholds, or
spit at stubborn cupboard tops.  She’ll stop
reporting on ripped curtains;  instead,
settle for nothing higher than a lap;
purr reckonings;  remember mice dismembered,
clawed under ivy, hawthorn  -  all
that garden toughness.  One day
she’ll swap sky-walking for slow-strolling
only to the hearth;  one day
crystal will sit safe, suppers secure,
stairs too stiff.
One day.

D.  A.  Prince

If you have any comments on this poem, D. A. Prince would be pleased to hear them.