One day

this cat will be too old
to scramble papers, puncture photographs
and chase each scuttling spider
relentless as a bailiff. One day
she’ll peg her thinner body to the floor,
not whine on windowsills, complain
high ceilings have no paw-holds or
spit at remoter cupboard tops. She’ll stop
reporting on ripped curtains — instead
settle for nothing higher than a lap,
purr at the memories of mice dismembered,
clawed out from ivy, brambles. One day
she’ll swap sky-walking for slow strolling
only to the hearth; one day
keyboards will sit safe, suppers secure,
the stairs too stiff. One day.

D A Prince

If you have any thoughts on this poem,  D.A. Prince would be pleased to hear them.