noticing a stranger’s grimace
He had a mobile face.
A face that, in times of negativity,
rage or despair, resembled a thin pancake
folding into the side of the pan.
On witnessing an assault
Though not generally a cruel person, the ease
with which she flicked the cat from the chair
had a certain barbaric, triumphant quality.
The family, ailurophiles to the core, experienced shock
as if a gardener had beheaded a favourite rose
or a priest displayed Tourette’s.
The feline was certainly not amused.
As I write, a bee, seeking sanctuary from the cold March weather,
lands an inch from my pencil.
He looks bit bedraggled; perhaps that’s what he thinks of me
though I’m probably too big to be seen.
I presume ‘He’ because it doesn’t look like a queen.
Up and down, he does a few press-ups, warming himself.
And off he goes,
looking no doubt for early dandelions or forsythia,
a rescue from this too early awakening.
Clearly not impressed by my writings.