Grief fills the room up of my absent cat.
Alive you were elusive,
silently showing up in sneaky corners
appearing as a dark shape on a chair
that was or wasn't there.
Sliding into slivers of space, dark corners
not even cat-sized, a shadow,
two yellow eyes, opening in reproach
at the disturbance. "Go away. I sleep.
I sleep for England." Now you sleep
for ever, but your shade persists.
I've heard you in the wainscot, in the roof.
You're underneath the chair cover
where you liked to lurk, a living cushion,
trailing a careless tail.
How am I to endure the long and lonely afternoons
you soothed with soundless comfort,
sleeping but present, like a stygian
guardian angel?
Your coming was unplanned, but proved a blessing.
Your leaving so abrupt, so shocking, like a curse,
turning my misery from fog to stone,
embodying my inchoate griefs into your tiny form.