Bluesky full of birds and the storm

For a few days the sun shone bright. The sky was so blue. The window at Mr Griffith's house was a warm place to sit in the winter sun. We walked and the sky was full of birds.








Then the rain came thick and fast and with it the wind and both scrubbed the colour from the sky. Now as the thin light begins to fall from the sky the fire breathes and wind circles the chimney. In the house it is warm. Outside a storm builds and there is a sense of unease. We can smell the salt sea spray from the wild waves.

Blue sky dawning.

At last the cloud passed over. First we had a night of rich stars where the moon rose late into the sky. In the morning the sky was clear and blue, so blue. Together we walked up the hill to the great rock. The lichens grow close to the stone, patterning its surface with tones of gray and yellow and even bright ginger. On days like this you can feel that even the rocks are full of life.

Bags and rain.

It rains. Every day it rains and the familiar paths have turned to streams. Earth has turned to mud. Water falls from the winter trees and drips onto wet fur.





She brought us a beautiful present back from America, a bag from some cats. It seems these clever cats have lots of books.
A bag is always a treat for a cat kept in too long by rain.




So we play, and She paints and it is good that She is again in Her place where She should be, though travels in America seemed interesting.




We like our bag. You can fit many cats inside. And we are glad that She is back.

When She came back

It was dark and the moonlight lit a path to the front door. We heard the car and we waited, all at the door with our tails held high. And we told Her how we had not been fed for a whole week and how glad we were to have Her back and could She light the fire NOW as we were a bit cold and some food would be good. All except Elmo, who had discovered that Mr Griffiths had a fire and was very welcoming.
And after She had fed us (again as the lady from next door had already given us supper), and Elmo had come home, we felt that we just had to turn our back on Her so that She would know that She should not go away and leave us. Because we miss Her.

While She was away

Martha waited for the fire to be lit,



Elmo snuggled up in a warm hammock,




Maurice sat in the kitchen on top of the fridge and looked down on the empty food bowls,




Max waited by the stuffed owl, eyes half closed, and meditated,




and Pixie went for a walk to check on the horses.

A long time

Maurice. "Has anyone seen the dogs? Come to think of it has anyone seen Her?"
Pixie. " I saw Her packing that big bag just the other day. It's cold here."
Elmo. " Either She has gone for a very long walk with the dogs, or She has gone away again. Hope She brings a present back this time."
Maurice. " When She gets back lets pretend we don't know Her."
Pixie. " I can't even remember what She looks like."

Ambition

A sleeping cat is a thing of beauty. To be as comfortable as only a cat can be is an ambition worth achieving.

The Windsinger and the dreaming cats

The Windsinger cat howls outside and the sky belongs only to stars. Some stars fall tonight, brief flight through the deep darkness. Inside the fire breathes warm in the hearth. Inside there is a glow of light. We sleep, curled on the sofa of gingercats, and as we sleep we dream, each a different dream now. Elmo dreams of running wild with the Windcat, bending the trees beneath his paw, flying through the sky. Maurice dreams of walking always beside Her. Martha dreams more for the caged cats. She will not let them rest now but whispers wildness into their sleep and brings memories of stories of mountains, stories their mothers told them even when they were kittens. And I, Pixie, what do I dream of ? I keep my dreams close and secret. I curl and dream and wait for the Windsinger's song to end.

Rivers and streams and a star-bow of light.

Even in the dark of mid-winter nights hunger draws the badger from his sleep. All day rain has fallen so hard that the roads have turned to rivers. Now in the darknight a river of stars flows across the sky, a star-bow.
Only the fleet of foot are out tonight, the rat and the fox. Fox prowls with the wind to his nose. All scents come to him and he reads the landscape, the story of the night, messages carried in the stream of air.
Cold, mid-winter, washed by the rain. Night.

Dream for a caged cat

A fresh day. Cat claw moon hangs in clear sky, whisker white. We have slept for days and with the help of Martha we have made a spell of dreaming. Cats around the world have joined to build the power of the spell and so we send out the dream to Taj and to all caged cats.

Inside your cage, warm and well fed, curl up and dream with us. The walls that bind you fall away in sleep. See through the bars to the spaces in between and come with us as we walk. See through the bars and they can no more hold you than a tree can hold an autumn leaf that longs to ride the wind.
Slip through the spaces in between and back through time to a land where the night would ring with the song of cat call, wild through the mountains, and the shepherds on their high hills would move closer to their fires.




Slip through the bars and back through time and follow the path of the wild wolf's paws and into the forest where the sunlight turns the trees shadows to bars across the snow. In high mountains look down on the flight of birds. Stretch high and pull claws down the dark bark of a rough tree to mark this place as the place of cats.




Leap from rock to rock and flow over the landscape and glory in the liquid movement of cat. The land belongs to you. The day is for sleeping. The gloaming twilight is for hunting. The stars are your lamps and the moon is the symbol of your power. Catch the light of the moon in your eye.

Dream. For in dreams we can all be free.