I give her a year. Knobs of her bones
feel sharp as her purrs.
A friend of mine is saying the same
of a friend of hers.
She has developed a yowl
deadly and pure as the soul
echoed at four a.m.
from some unfathomed hole.
April’s sun slows. She finds my note,
a screwed up paper ball,
‘Vet!’ kicked for five minutes
round, round the shadowed hall.
If you have any comments on this poem, Alison Brackenbury would be
pleased to hear them.