Our Cat

 

a poem by Myra Dryden

Contrary to convention

Our cat

Doesn't sit on a mat

Gazing at children

In alphabetical order,

He's too proud for that.

 

Rather, he prances about

And hates you to shout

When he won't go out;

Or while you say your prayers

He curls up in a chair,

And stares and stares.

 

I can tell you that

 

Coloured Pencil on Paper: 280 x 200mm                © David Swift