Old Tom

A pile of feathers
Scattered on the lawn;
Long nocturnal prowls
From dusk till dawn
And lying in wait
For the unwary prey.
These are his memories
As his fur turns grey.

Languidly sitting
On the window sill,
With eyes half closed,
He can remember still
The bygone era
When the young feline
Towards a thrush
Made a bold beeline.

Gone are those days,
Forever in the past;
He realises now
That he can't run so fast.
No more king of the jungle,
Old age has seen to that,
He lives a life befitting
A pensioner pussy cat.

© Luigi Pagano