Through green and golden grasses

Wild flowers, long grass, golden, summer.

Green lane to the top of the hill filled with emerald light. We walk together.

Over the rocks, through gorse, a twisting path where foxes run, we wait for Bella and Pixie and Maurice.

Pools of sunlight colour the rain bruised fields. We glow bright and over head the peregrines claim the sky as their own.

Elmo's nest

On top of the hill, sheltered from the wind, I lay in a nest of grass and waited for the other two while peregrine chicks split the sky with screams of joy at finding their wings for the first time. Born on a rock ledge above the heaving sea in a tangle of twisted twigs, clumsy, ugly, now they dance their fearful dance across the blue and claim the air as their element, all wing and claw and beautiful elegance.

Owl-light

In between the light of day and the dark of night we walk the boundaries of home. The twilight is still. A gentle breath of promised rain touches our fur, the only thing to hold a colour still in this twixt light. Still we burn through the dimity darkness with our fire-glow coats.
No birds are singing.
All is calm and the half-night sky is bruised dark with cloud.
It is as if the world holds its breath and waits for night to fall.
No birds sing, not even the grasshopper warbler. Owls awake and begin their hush winged flight.
Not even the murmur of a distant sea disturbs the peace.

Early evening walking.

I was curled tight and small when she put on her shoes and called the dogs to walk but I unfurled and stretched and together we walked to the sea.

A steady swell rose and fell and the sea sang as the sun slanted onto ginger, evening sun, still warm, and the sound of the sea an evening song as it sucked and pulled at the shore below.

The tight balled flowers of meadowsweet echoed the salt sea spray, the young flowers still holding tight to their honey perfume.

And the sea shone blue as the cloud bank built far away.

Fresh purple heather and banks of wild thyme scented the paths.

For a while we sat to watch the birds fly as far out to sea a river of shearwaters flew low over the sea.

On the way home the sky still held more of the day than night though the scent of night creatures began to colour the air.

The Moon tonight....

... is a sliver of silver, thin as a cat's whisker, curved like a cat claw. The nights so short that the stars look through the night's veil for only a few hours. We bathe in the starlight and watch the great bridge of silver starlight span the universe. And I am watching you.

Dirty Maurice

Outside it is supposed to be summer. Inside we curl in the cold and wait for the sun to come back. She has gone out again somewhere, but while She is away Hannah has found the camera.

Walking with Jane

Over the hill in the water-soft air we walked, just Kiffer and me, with Her and Jane, and Jane was kind and picked me up and held me, warm.

Along the road at Maes y Mynydd the field stone tumbled onto the path and foxgloves made walls of purple flowers. Skylarks sang and out at sea the white birds swirled with a promise of porpoise.

Kiffer ran ahead with the dogs, and over the hill to the city of badgers, tucked under the low thorn trees. The badgers were sleeping, waiting for twilight.

Over the hill Jane cuddled me close, wonderful woman who has looked deep into the eyes of wild tigers.

Woman are such fickle things.

Cats do not get jealous....or sulk. I just want to know who is sending her flowers. And why? And what, at the end of the day, is wrong with a nice bunch of mice. She never seems so pleased when I bring Her mice.

Not all things that are ginger are cats....

...some things that are ginger are pigs.

Maurice

This morning, long after day had broken through the brief dark of night, after She had fed us and returned to bed with a coffee, I went and curled on the bed. Then I lay on her, head resting on Her shoulder, paws around Her neck, warm like a scarf. Outside the light was gray like dusk and a storm was building to bend the trees. Inside, together, we were warm. I began to sing a quiet purr, to tell Her how much She had been missed, no pretence this time. She had been away for too long and we had begun to fear that She had found new cats.
We dozed together as close as two creatures can be and Her breath warmed my ginger fur and mine played music in Her ear, breath like the brush of a butterflies wings. I dreamt, and in my dream She shed Her clumsy human form and became cat and together we hunted the hillside in twilight blue while stars looked down. Together we moved sleek over the land, liquid cats, sky full of aireymice, mothwing and moonlight, grass full of intrigue, movement and silver. We chased stars over the sea and curled in a silvered pool of moonlight to watch the hushwing hunt the hedges.
From time to time I stirred from sleep to feel her skin against my fur, happy to let Her know that even though She is only human still She is loved.

Summer solstice and twilight walking

The day was warm and we rested in nests of grass in shady places while sharp voiced birds shouted warnings that we were there and that their fledglings should beware, for even in sleep we are dangerous. Then evening came and at last She called the dogs to walk. First Pixie and me, then Kiffer who waited in a field as if knowing which way to go. On the path up the hill the white elderflowers glowed like stars in the evening light.

The longest day, the shortest night, but the evening had tricks to play on the daylight and called in the mist to lie over the land and steal the light from the day, pockets of mist, the breath of the dark, fell into the gloaming.

And over the sea towards Ireland the sun set the light to burn the clouds bright. The sea so calm, wrinkled by the winds sigh, and the world so peaceful, holding its breath, waiting for a storm.

On the way back we prowled against the dark sky, wild cats, inky dark and blending with shadows.

The night belongs now to the moths, to the aireymice who hunt them and to our sister, the owl.

Highland cows

Just before moonrise She came back. We heard the car before we saw Her and one by one came out of the evening gloaming to greet Her. She has been away for too long. And we told Her all about how Debs had not fed us at all, nor taken us for any walks apart from when she led Elmo away up the hill and lost him and again he stayed up there all night alone. And She gave us some food and then muttered something about how She had been to Scotland and had won The Highland Children Book Award for the best picture book for Snow Leopard! Well, we are glad She has won an award for something because She would not win any awards for looking after cats, going away and leaving us for a whole swelling of the moon! But we were pleased because the award was a ginger cow, and it seems to make Her happy to have an award for colouring in and writing. So later when the moon was riding in the night sky and silvering the clouds we walked around the village with Her, pouncing on moon shadows, because, after all, it is good to have Her back.

Red berries

Many days have come and gone and the moon has grown from a whisker to a yellow orb and all the while She has been away with never a word or a whisper. In the garden the strawberries have changed from flowers white as snow to berries red as mouse blood. And we wait and watch and walk without Her.

Dear cats

If you are looking for Her She is here with me and I am on holiday in Devon. You would like it here as there are birds and mice and lizards and a sofa to lie on. We walk all day by the sea and one day when the sea was calm and still it came alive with a boiling and bubbling as a huge shoal of mackerel fish swam close to the shore, feeding in frenzy. The sun shines. We sit on a shingle beach and stare out to sea. And do, nothing.

Escape of the wild strawberry plant

Gardening is not one of the strong points of She who paints, but one year She bought a small plant in a pot, wild strawberries, tiny, medieval, like something from the manuscript paintings that She likes. It was for a book She was working on.
The strawberry plant escaped the pot and found that it liked the wildness of the garden. It threaded its way around until it became a small bank of wild strawberries, an illuminated border of tiny flowers that promise the smallest, sweetest fruit in high summer. So delicate a red fruit with a taste that fills the heart and makes children smile.

Kiffers are good at finding things

I found it, in a dark place, and I will lick until it opens!

Because She was so busy

She bought us flowers to say sorry for Her long days of neglect. White flowers that smell so lovely.

But better still She bought us small cat fish shaped treats which are so very wonderful to eat that She has to hide them, for it we find them we try to open the tin with our sharp white teeth.

A pretty pink tin. If She wants She can go and be too busy again, so long as we can have sunshine and a tin EACH of Pit'r Pats.
She has put some pictures on her website for all the cats who could not come to the exhibition.

While She is away,

the cats will play. Hide and seek, and Pixie went away to hide while Kiffer counted to three.

All around the garden, then Kiff gave up looking and there on the bench in the sunshine, found a ginger paw.

Found you!

Next to find Maurice and Elmo helped too.

But though Elmo looked under the tent there was no sign of his big brother.

But Kiffer knew better for he heard the sound of a whisker brushing canvas as Maurice smiled to see Elmo walk away, and Kiffer bounced.
"Found you".

"Ouch," said Maurice. "That Kiffer is one big cat!"