Pumpkin and Me

He senses my melancholia –
my marmalade moggy...
Breathe in the essence
of him; pine cones, and
a certain smokiness, like
some distant bonfire. Lame
in one leg...moth-eaten ears,
but home, sweet home,
to his pesky mites.

Stares me out – those eyes
the bluest of things green;
flexes his claws on my knee...
I bleed, but the merest trickle.
If only love was always
like that...It’s supposed
to hurt, I know, but
no more than just a little.

He melts into my lap,
nudging my hand
with his head – his way
of cajoling me to stroke him.
A pair of old cronies...us,
listening to the snow
as, ‘soft, it starts a-falling’.
As good as it gets, this;
of a Christmas morning.