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.

Alison Brackenbury

If you have any comments on this poem,  Alison Brackenbury would be pleased to hear them.