Home for Christmas

Where was your last Christmas, Puss?
Before you came to me?
Was it inside with a family
With presents beneath the tree?
Were you alone in icy rain
Or warm and loved and fed?
Did you curl up in a cardboard box
Or safe on someone’s bed?
Did you feast on turkey scraps
Or scavenge on the street?
Was there snow beyond your door
Or cold beneath your feet?

It’s hard to think I’ll never know
The winters of your past
But here in your forever home
Please know: you’re safe at last.






I watch as darkness creeps up to the window,
my moon face sharpening into a crisp white orb.
Plant pots,
chilled and chipped,
their contents standing skeletal,

reaching through the night

to pull me from my sanctuary.

The Christmas lights arc their reflection,
the halo of the inside world,
as radiators chunter and grumble to life,
filling this home with Winter warmth
that seeps into my soul like hot brandy.

Across the road,
the flickering blue white of the neighbours’ TV
traps the darkness between us – two slices of light –
oases of lit loveliness in night’s desert.



My soapbox
is a stack of
other people’s ideas,
sifted and filtered and percolated until
they make sense to me.

They are sound-boarded in sanctuaries and
to shout
in spaces where
you’re allowed to shout,
lost in the
roar of the crowd.

Sleeping Angel

This king size bed
is big enough
for one.

One cat.

One horizontal, fleshy weight
across my toes,
limp as a noodle.

I am not comfortable.
Can’t move.
Won’t move.
Won’t disturb this devil’s rest,
for, sleeping,
he’s angelic …