The kitten

I remember the kitten

on the floor.


Black and patchy white it was.


Dad came home and

with his boots,

his boots of work and mud,

he squashed the kitten’s

head on the floor

while coming through

the door, cracked it open good,

for I heard the fatal sound,


I, as witness,

took it in as photograph,

as sound file,

as emblem of this world.


He didn’t mean to

do it, of course;

it was just there,

in the way,

on display,

as blood trickled,

freely and completely

from it grotesque mouth,

distorted and not whole.


And I cried, I cried, I cried

tears of loss and said

words of anger.


How bold was I at six.


I thought about the kitten

on the floor,

its eye still and taken

for its sin of

playing too near

the door of

nature’s retribution.


And I took it,

for no one else would,

and buried it

crumpled in the wet mud

of a drizzling winter’s day.


Buried it with my teddy,

for it needed this friend

more than I as it passed

to some other place

much nicer than

this realm of skulls and tears.


Covered it over in mud, I did,

and said a feeble pray

learnt in another mournful place.


And I was there alone

with my friend,

for all the others laughed

and said that it was just

a stupid cat.


Say goodbye, say goodbye, say goodbye,

for here lies all of life as well.