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!"

Bad weather for cats and ducks

She has been ignoring us for a week now, busy She says, with her exhibition. Too busy to sit a while and talk with a cat.
Water has poured from the sky and rain. Fierce storms that darkened the days. Yesterday the cloud rolled back and the sky was washed clean and for a moment we all sat together in the garden where roses hang like red fruits from the bushes, heavy with scent, a fairy tale brier patch.
The sun was warm and the day full of the smallest white moths like flying scraps of white ashes.
Then bells rang and She was off again.
But while She was busy we stole the camera and played hide and seek in the garden.

A birthday treat of mice and walking

It was Maggie's birthday so her husband decided to do something special. He told her they were going away for a few days and emailed to ask if they could come visit. A secret. She wasn't to know. But we knew that she was coming so when she arrived here Maurice caught her a perfect fresh mouse, long whiskered and beautiful, for her birthday. She stepped out of the car and into the world of ginger.

Everyone came out to say hello, first Elmo, then Kiffer, still guarding the nest in the mop bucket. Pixie perched on the sofa and then we took Maggie for a walk, to see the top of the hill and the foxgloves. We were all most impressed as Maggie's cat is the genius who pooed in the tumble drier, which sounds like some kind of alchemy, for we do not know what a tumble drier is.

Pixie had a cuddle and later I came to say hello and sit and purr, and even Max came along in his stripped tabby grandeur to wave a tail and twitch a whisker.

So, happy birthday Maggie, with love from all of us.
I still think he should have wrapped the mouse.

Still life with lizard and cat hair

nb: No animals or reptiles were harmed during the making of this image.

Music

Six cats purring in harmony, night time lullaby, a rolling song of contentment for the stars, a small wave of sound through the darkness.

Sunshine through ginger ears

The sun shines warm though the wind is cold.

On top of the hill we walk together while a great buzzard wheels and mews then hangs on the edge of the wind. I wish for wings.

The rock is becoming a stage for flowers. Foxgloves grow tall and bees dip in and out of their speckled purple cups.

Stars of purple-blue squil still hold a reminder of spring. Soon the cuckoo will be quiet again, then away for another year. For now the sky is stitched with a pattern of swifts in flight. We sit on the cusp of summer.

Secrets

I am Kiffer and I am happy and this is my new home and I am wondering if I am in cat heaven. I know secrets. I know that under this bucket is a nest of mice, tiny and pink, blind and squeaking.

And I know that this lion's head marks the spot where the great Arthur is buried, giant of a ginger cat who walked and stalked the hills bringing terror to all rats and mice. Noble cat who died too soon, too short a life for one so painted like the sun setting on a clear summer day. When he was alive he burned bright and now he is the stuff of legend.
Martha says you can still hear him if you listen. His voice sings with the call of the buzzard as it wheels, high in the sky.

Tonight is the full moon and we will sing with all the ghost cats of the village, on the ruined cottage walls, in praise of the moon and in praise of the claw and the teeth that are sharp and the eyes that see clear in the dark. And the mice will hide in their homes in fear and awe.