A Kind of Revolt

Ten o’clock on a Monday morning.Head down, hands in my coat pocketsI strode up Plover Road.October, and the wet leaves litteredThe pavements and choked the drains.I nearly missed the drama as I moanedTo myself in the mizzling rain –

Scanning the ground in his comfortableArrogance, secure with power and sportingThe usual look of utter disdainThe rather beautiful white cat was stock-still.He was waiting on the narrow wooden fenceOf the rather busy-looking garden.He was waiting to enjoy his scripted part:His cue would be a noise in the undergrowthAnd a mouse, bird or a vole would beCasually torn to bits.

But suddenly, a magpie descended,Not from heaven to save the unwary prey,But from a branch high above the fence.And without warning, he pecked the soft whiteBehind of the soft white cat -Viciously, not playfully.The cat squirmed and turned to faceThis churlish coloured untermensch.But the bird had his measure:He jumped neatly over him and peckedAgain the exposed white rump –And again and again the tables were turned.

Guile, not guts, defeated the catWho jumped down from the fence andSlunk away to save his injured pride.The cat had been thwarted, for once –But he was still a cat.