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Over the hill we roam, past the Vicar's strawberry plots, through the old Churchyard, and onward, until we are alone beside Carmarthen Bay. We can hear the children's voices on the sands. I cannot sing the old songs now as I did in the sun amongst the geraniums. We rest awhile in the shade of the hedge, fragrant with may blossom, I in my black fur, my companion in her grey. Why were we born to be so disliked of birds and small animals? They caress our silken hair and gaze into our green eyes, and praise our innocent looks. Our little feet slip silently on, from stair to stair, as the evening draws on and we must start again on our nightly wanderings. The bullfinch and the robin mark me stealing softly by, and straightaway stop singing. The shrewmouse eyes me from the corn in the old Welsh barn and flees away. The dog in the yard flees after me - Oh! Why was I born a cat? The heartless hound is prized, as it wags its tail and licks the hand of all. The true cat they prize not, and if it is let out of the bag, it still flies home. They call me cruel, because I can make a light meal of a mouse or song bird, after, as is my nature, teasing them. I am then chased away by the gardener. If the china gets knocked over or the flower-pots come crashing down, it is the cat that is blamed. Once, I remember, how one night near Aberaeron, beneath a crescent moon, I gained the tiles on the Vicar's roof, and played many a little game with visiting little lovers. They fought! - by good St David, 'twas a fearsome sight to see. The arched back of ginger and the tabby darkly waving his tail. One yell, and then - all claws! - the ginger fell upon the foe, his white teeth gleaming in the moonlight, raising his voice in that Song of Cats, without a tune. It thrills me now that final Miaow - that weird unearthly din. Lone Welsh maidens heard it far away, and drew closer to their hearths and glowing firelight. I used up that night, as all cats have, my nine lives, and still visit the old sausage shop, near Carmarthen Bay. They fill my milk bowl up in the Dairy at the Farmhouse where I live, and give me a choice sardine. But once again, as evening creeps on, I stealthily go out, past the Vicarage gardens, listening to the old Church clock striking the hour of midnight. But nevermore shall I be the cat I once have been, as we roamed the shores of Carmarthen Bay. The memories of that fateful night haunt me even now. In dreams I see that rampant smokey striped fur and tremble again as I recall that Miaow. My grey furred, purring companion ever reminds me of the sad memories of days and nights gone by. ROSEMARY GOULDING |
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page last updated 4 JUNE 2002 |
