Thursday, March 15, 2007


Next door to the house where we live is a cottage, small and lime washed. Mr Griffiths lives there. He life has been measured out by many cats and in his garden is a cemetery for cats with stones marking the days on which they died. Now he has a black and white cat, Nadolig, fierce and a fighter and Max does not like him. Sometimes we visit Mr Griffiths and he feeds us bits of turkey that he keeps in his pockets.
In our garden cats lie sleeping under the earth too. Bird, and Arthur. On nights when the moon is full we all gather and sing on the stone walls of the ruined cottages, silhouetted against starlight and moonlight, ghost cats and live, we celebrate the dark and praise the shadows of the moon.
We walked to the top of the hill and the day was like a gray cat. Colour washed away in the strange light with heavy clouds like snow, but not.
Tired we stretched out on the sofa and waited for Her to light a fire. She is very slow to care for our comforts on some days.

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