And she pointed off towards a cottage
in the distance with terracotta bricks
that shined with ruddy élan on the stage
set by the unkempt garden's weeds and sticks:
The roof was curiously made of thatch,
and two small windows flanked the doorless gape,
that revealed a desk and a post to scratch
for the Russian Blue with the scruffy nape:
The cat-eyes beckoned, yellow in the night,
and I walked toward my new abode, (my guide
on my left hand – spade awkward in my right)
and when I reached the door, I stopped. She sighed:
"Do not wait. The desk calls you. Go on. Write.
You have much to say. Let me get the light."
urbansonnets 