Something wonderful

This morning we travelled together, She and I, to Paris. The time was a time when lamp-lighters walked the twilight streets of evening. We wandered through streets, time travelled to a land underwater, to a place where corals and fossils were precious jewels, thieves and murderers darkened doorways, scribes compiled thick books with drawings of skeletons and feathers, where diamonds hid in mummies, to The Well of Birds.
Together we wandered through this world of richness, She in bed with coffee, me a ginger scarf, purring.
The Coral Thief.

Nadolig

I am Nadolig, the pied cat.
Many years ago when She came to live here there was a cat. Black as the night when the moon is gone he was. Dafydd his name. He lived with Glyn, the two together, in peace of summer and winter and every day the two would walk the village bounds, morning, evening. In his pockets Glyn had crumbs of cheese and bread and apple and he would feed the birds, so that She would know when we were beating the bounds by the flock in the air that followed. Sometimes She would sit a while and they would talk.
Daffyd died, many years ago, hit by a careless car on the lane that leads to the village.
Soon after Ebril arived, for the world of cat knows when there is someone lonely, needing company. Wild lethario, Ebril would wander and court the lady cats at Upper Porth Mawr farm, driving Peggy mad with his late night songs of love. But he would always come back to Glyn. Until the day he died also, and then I was sent.
Some say Ebril was Daffyd's child. Some say I am Ebril's. Only we cats know the truth of this.

So now I am the cat of Treleddyd. But I am alone. Glyn has gone away again, for the cold can be a bitter enemy for the old. We sat together for most of the winter but when the coldest snap came it did bite hard and deep.
She comes and feeds me. She tells me that Glyn is warm, safe, but will be away for some while yet.
So I wait, watch and keep the house. And with me waits the black cat ghost of Daffyd.

Harmonic chaos

Two dogs one basket.
Two cats one rug.

Just.

On this night puddles are ink dark, reflecting stars, the sea is a moonsilvered mirror reflecting the glorious cloth of heaven.
On this night the sound from the moonsilvered mirror is hushed. No wave fall, and on land no dog bark or leaf stir. Woodsmoke dances skyward in moonlight, velvet soft. No fox call, lapwing cry, no call of battling shrew. Just silence in silver light.

The colour of night

This morning the light was like the lustre on old pearls, so soft. Now there is none. No light. So dark you cannot see paw infront of whisker. So dark it is the deepdark, richdark of a black cat's fur. Across the sky clouds have eaten starlight, the new moon, the lighthouse sweep. Across the field the dog at the daffodil farm barks and sounds so close we could almost touch him. The sea is quiet, pressed beneath the weight of water-filled air, smoothed of all creases, unstirred by wind's breath. This is how it is now.

Then

Then the cat claw moon shone bright in the late evening blue sky. Then the evening star stood alone of all stars, clear and wishing. Then the starlight of night was smurred, patterns obscurred. Then the roar of the distant sea was loud. Then the night, so mild after such bitter, bighting cold and the stream so fast with water music after the iron hard silence of ice. Even in such darkness it seemed that the water laughed to be free again.
Then a moorhen called as the fox was hunting by the water's edge.

When

When there is only starlight falling on the world , and the only sound is the running water from the spring that rises in the lane, and there is no breeze, and the peewits sleep peacefully undisturbed by hunting foxes, it seems that there is such a peace in the darkland of night.

Glass and paws

We are redesigning the table cover with a pattern of wonderful paw prints, while Steve sticks glass to the wall.

Something to shout about

It would seem that we are to become gallery cats. But why, we want to know, has She called it The House of GOLDEN Dreams when it should be called The House of GINGER Dreams?

Part of the Pride, Part of the Pack.

It is so good to see Ffion happy again. Although still sad from the passing of Pitta, one of The Pack, she has a small puppy to warm her heart. So The Pride welcomes another to The Pack, and Elmo looks forward to tormenting Bell, the Christmas puppy.

The day comes to light on a world of shining beauty.

We woke Her early, because of the featherlight dancing of snowflakes in the early morning light. We walked. Lapwings and sunrise in a beautiful world. Words are unecessary when there is so much beauty.

For a moment the moon looked out between the clouds. This day is such a blessing.

Blue sky, buzzards and lapwings

Across ground sprinkled with snow we walked together to the hilltop high. So quiet the day that you could hear a cat paw on frozen snow, a flapwing flight of a flock of lapwing and the crunch munch of cows grazing bracken. Light and snow, winter, a sky filled with birds. Paradise.

At home we greeted Mr Griffiths. So cold in his house, but he seemed quite well, with Nadolig held tight in his arms.

Frost and a world of promise and hope.

New year, bright, early morning light as we walked up and over the hill to far away.

In such bright light Kiffer looked like a frosted ginger.

The day was still as we watched distant skeins of birds decorate the sky with wings and flight, frost shadows and pockets. A day such as this holds a world of promise.

A picture paints a thousand words