Blossom Park


After father returns from work,
When the clock strikes close to nine,
When the sky outside grows purple,
And the stars begin to align,
I watch in curiosity at the park beside my home,
Just when they believe no one is watching,
Small shadows begin to roam,
Some come from trees, from windows or out of front doors,
Some are grey, ginger,
Or black with little white paws,
I stare in amusement as they fill the park,
Laying beneath blossom trees,
Playing in the quietness of the dark,
But just when the clock creeps to four,
Daylight beams through the bushes,
As they bound across the grass floor,
Hiding quietly in their homes as if they never left,
It is their little secret,
And that is how it shall be kept.

Aimee Robinson-French

cat poetry

Photo: private

By poesiedumonde