Poet and Cat

for Leontia Flynn

Me and Pangur Bán work away
absorbed completely in our tasks.
His whole being leans to play
while I peel apart fusty words.

Oh, respite from ass kissers,
my lamplit evenings, not talking.
This noir cat has his own matters
to attend to (mainly mousing).

It’s quite quiet, this small flat
with us in it, awfully monkish
and having a solid go at
this or that, always fishing.

Often mice hang between his paws;
less often I seize
on the exact word or phrase
for our unruly ways.

He directs his copper eyes
to the yellow walls. Meanwhile,
reluctant, I fix mine
on the still blank page. Sigh.

He bravely displays medals
(rodents) in toothy rapture;
if a stanza stops rebelling
I grin at its capture.

This is the story of days:
our easy agreement, two crafters
joined in some verbal play.
Our work is never finished.

Prayerful practice
made this feline a virtuoso.
My thoughts sharp as his scratch.
Together we peer from the window.

                        from the 9th-century Irish