It is late. The almost full moon hangs in an ink blue sky. In the west there is still a fraction of light from the setting sun. This is the moment where night and day are held in balance. We walk, clock-wise, around the village, shadow cats, keeping a faint taint of orange in our fur. Or maybe it is just the memory of colour that paints our coats.
Tomorrow the moon may be full and then the village will belong to the ghost cats, and on the walls of the ruined cottages the ghost cats will gather and sing to the moon. Cats of every hue, all who have ever lived in this place and those who have come here to find peace. And over the hill, in Maes y Mynydd, the cats of the old village will call back until even the stars echo with their song.
At night, all cats are gray.