The Ghost Cat

Tonight, by the light of the quarter moon we walk. The wind is rising. Pixie and Max are sheltering, warm in the kitchen. Only Elmo follows. The moon is almost bright enough to pick out his flame coat and he looks well, sleek. He watches over Her as they walk, and talks to himself, to Her, singing a cat song to the moonshadow cat who keeps pace beside him. Starlight. 

Starbright. 

The ground is shattered and splintered beneath the trees, shadow and moonlight, silver and dark.

I call, on the edge of the wind, on the edge of memory, a feint cat cry in the wind. And I walk with them too, ghost cat, watchful, shadow and moonlight.

Cold and the night.

This morning the moon faded slowly as sunlight filled a new day. Now she is late to rise. Once more the darkness is pinned to the night with a million million stars, high above, far away. Cold, beautiful night. We are all of a curl and a soft fall of fur by the fire's side. Dreaming cats.

A small nocturnal love story

We flow from the house of colour, through the door and into the velvet monochrome of night like a river of ginger. The few stars that shine tonight are veiled and give no light. Across the field a fox begins a love song and is answered by a dog bark. A duel begins, fox call, dog bark, both echo over fields until the calls merge and it is uncertain where the echo ends and the call begins.
But maybe this is not a duel. Perhaps it is a duet. Romeo and Juliette. Fox and sheepdog.

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.

The wishing song of falling stars.

Even though the sky is a sea of clouds with islands of stars clear between, even though the beam from Strumble Head lighthouse sweeps a warning for miles across the sky, still it is possible to see the stars falling. And all day, although sunlight obscured the view, still the shower fell, a rain of stars and we slept, curled in warm places, dreaming to the song of the fallen ones.

Beautiful, just.

Inside: Warm fire burning, small lights like stars in a green tree, cat curl heaven and a fur pile purr.
Outside: The cold taste of winter, distant dog bark, chill breeze from the south and a rain of falling stars.

All evening and into the night we lay across sofas, curled in laps. Hands stroked us as we dreamed. The fire so warm and all so glad that all of the chaos and upheaval of the long year had gone and peace had returned to this quiet household of cats, dogs and the two legs.
Then we peeled ourselves away and out and last night so many stars fell, some brief in their final light show, some arcing bright across the darkest sky to light a trail. It seemed as if they fell to a secret music that only we could hear. So many that if you wished on every one you would have run out of wishes and still had stars to spare.

Night rain of stars.

Dark night, late moon rise. In the garden we watch as stars rain down in a shower. Some fall quickly, some trail across the darkness, burning bright. The air tastes of winter, cold against whiskers. Ears pricked, we hear the unquiet dreams of sleeping mice. If we could we would sing them lullabies.

Song of the copper bear

Tonight the wind cat plays with the copper bear that flies above the house. The dogs go to the door. It is dark, time to walk the village bounds before sleep. She rises to go and as She opens the door some of the night rushes into the house. Moonshadow fingers of winterbone trees dapple the ground with dark and silver. I slip through the door, out from the light and into the night, to follow.
She turns. " Go back. It's cold. Stay warm in the house," She says.
But I jump up, into Her arms, a ginger scarf and gloves of bright fur to warm Her as they walk. She pushes Her face into flame fur and we warm each other as She carries me around beneath star and sky and bright moon. As we near the house again its lights shine out a welcome. She breathes in the scent of cat and sighs, holding me close.
" I love you, Maurice."
We close the door on the darkness.
Outside the wind cat still plays with the copper bear. In the wind, the copper bear sings.

Last night

Last night the moon rose huge over the twilight landscape. Pink moon, heavy in the darkening sky, full round. In the long grass of the green lane moths danced like flakes of moon fallen to earth. Last night the wind was resting, the air was kissed with dew, grass flowers bent, aerymice flew and the moonflakes made patterns in the gloaming. Last night as the night became rich with darkness a silver light painted each blade of grass, each flower petal and moonshadows fell in velvet pools. Last night the world belonged only to cats.

The Blossom Moon

The Blossom moon follows close behind the sun so that even as the sun has set the moon has almost completed her path across the sky to set also.
Her crescent hangs so beautiful in the almost night sky with stars and still a faint kiss of light from the sun in the far west.
Aerymice flit, flickering the starlight with dark wings.
In the balance of deep gloaming light we gingers are almost invisible.
In the balance of deep gloaming light the crescent of the Blossom moon glows. We can see the crescent, a cats claw of white, and we can see the whole of the moon. It is beautiful.

Night song on a damp air night

Tonight we walk in the darkest of nights where not a star shines down. No moon. Only the steady sweep of lighthouse warning of treacherous rocks, smurred and smudged by the dark, moist night.
And the night smells of earth, raw earth, and yellow gorse, pale scented, not rich like the thick, golden scent of gorse in sunshine. The white blackthorn leaves a faint star-shine of scent hanging in the still night air.
We walk the village bounds and hear the cries of night birds, the alarm of geese disturbed from sleep, the distant dog bark from the farm across fields, and behind it all the ever constant song of the sea.

Night of the foxes.

There is something about a chill spring night that differs from an autumn one. Maybe it is the memory of the warmth of the day, maybe the scent of spring flowers held in frozen air.
Tonight the world is full of night song. Lambs are calling in fields all around and the dogs are hunting swift. Foxes call and Fred bark to join the chase across at the daffodil farm. His bark closes the distance. Rosie pricks up her ears and calls back. Foxes. A night full of foxes.
On the pond the Canada geese rise, calling and a coot shrills sharp. An owl is also hunting, flying low along the hedge banks.
Stars shine, new moon swelling in dark sky. Moonshadows dark as black velvet.
Heaven.

Stealing the cats' blog

We have just walked together in the dark of a cloud filled full moon night, around the bounds of the village before sleep.
I cannot express how quietly delighted I feel to see lights shining through the patterned curtains of Glyn's house, to know that he is there in his house filled with memories, safe and well.
Across the fields foxes are barking their eerie starlight barking calls and as we walk our shadows are made by the light from Glyn's house.

Promises of dreams.

It is still. No street light orange disturbs the silver moonlight night. Clouds dapple the sky. Stars are dimmed by moon's brightness. No wind disturbs the sleeping birds as they huddle in branches budding with spring blossoms. The sea sings her distant shore song. A fox hunts geese, putting them to flight in the silver night. Their alarm call rings like a bell across the land and is answered by the goodnight song of Fred, Rosie's brother as he sings her a lullaby across the moor, over fields of daffodils. She lifts her head to listen and her nose reads the night like eyes read words on a page.
The geese settle. Moonshadows move across the path where each stone, each blade of grass is etched in silver light. The starlight barking serenade mingles with the song of the sea as we walk back into the house where the fire glows.
The night is peaceful, beautiful and bursting with promises of dreams.
Tomorrow begins The Hare Moon.

Rising wind

We walk around the village in the milky moonlight of a clouded full moon night. The moonshadows are softened by cloudlight. We see the barn owl, a fragile scrap of white, caught in the moonlight and lifted high by the paw of the wind. And the wind cat is rising still and calling her pride to come and play, bending the trees and lifting the waves to moonbows in the spray. The scent of woodsmoke threads through the path of the wind.
Back in the garden we hear the owl, still calling, still hunting.

Fleeting

Tonight we watched as a falling star ripped a bright tear in the velvet fabric of the night, and we wondered, how does the star cat manage, each night, to throw the stars up into the sky so that they always land in the same patterns? The rip in the darkness was no sooner there than mended. Only the memory of the bright arc remained. This is what life is like.

Calm, still, quiet night

Imagine. Above is an ocean of air. We stand on the bed of the ocean and see the surface dappled with moonlight, a thin surface of the ocean that hides behind it an eternity of starlight. Through the ocean vast whale clouds travel, dark against the silvered surface, shadows. Closer, aerymice shriek their song in the stillness, high and sweet, hunting the late moths, winged feasts for hungry bats. Across the fields heavy horses call into the night. The air is still. Sound travels. And over all this she rides splendid, bone white, silvered moon. Almost full, but her shadows dampened by a silk thin cloak of cloud.