IN THE COAL-SHED

By Ingrid Leonard

In the coal-shed

By Ingrid Leonard

Posh Paws sits in a basket

with all her newborns, which lately

have been soft, indiscernible things,

snug-suckling at their mother’s underside;

now they watch me without moving,

their eyes bluer than the sea and all its sparkles,

greener than the rain-splashed grass,

five pairs on beds of glowing fur; black,

silver-splodged and their tortoiseshell

mother, who watches me without moving,

quiet and content with her queening,

while the sun steals through a patched hole

in the roof – the soul is a tiny thing.

My brother and I will each pick one,

the rest Mum will say Dad drowned

in the burn, then on with her chores;

a blight will form in my blood,

I’ll tend its spores. We’ll name them

for the white stars on their necks,

our allocated pets – Lightning, Blaze –

they’ll die soon of cat flu. Mum’s seen kittens

open their eyes before, I watch them still

without moving, well-fed, finished

with morning miaows. Who gets to decide

what lives and dies? They’ll leave no trace,

save the image of their wet eyes.

#DarkPoetsClub