Liquorice
A shadow streaks across
the grass
and drops to stalk through
clumps of fern.
Tail quivers high, paws
bat the air
where just that second
a fly had passed.
Undaunted, queen of this
domain,
she struts her rounds,till
smell of rain
impels her to a drier realm
of willing slave and bounteous
bowl.
In sated bliss, tongue
pinkly combs
through midnight silk;
a cold-nose kiss
says thanks before the
final climb.
Then sunk deep in a duvet
den,
dreaming a life of mouseful
gain,
she slumbers curled around
her tail,
a furry, purring liquorice
whirl.
by Krys Bottrill
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