Cats

Her coat is the colour
of washed-out clouds
which drift across the moon
at midnight.

Cave-black eyes, familiar and remote
as the heart of Glasgow,
reflect a sullen ghost
of city twilight.

And she moves in panther steps,
past each ragged, scattered light
in a soft purr of winter drizzle.

Unhindered by loyalty
she leaves, in a blur
of night and shapeless traffic

for the immeasurable journey
between newly-old
and wholly-new.

And somewhere, they will meet.
Poignant with rain,
under a neon sun.

As the city stills
to the dead of midnight
they smile ferociously,
bare their claws.