Strappy sandals;
at every step
my toes launch grasshoppers.
Lizard
trickles across concrete:
memory of water
Wind skitters leaves
across the yard. They crumble
to sand-coloured dust.
Honeysuckle drapes
overflowing wheelie bins:
summer-scented air.
“Don’t give it a name unless you’re going to adopt it,” was the wise advice from a friend when I told him about the young, skinny, grey cat which was merodeando la casa sizing us up as prospective family.
Wise advice. Except it got me thinking about cats and cat names, of course.
I know there are better things to be doing on a Saturday night than surfing the web, but my partner was away and there was nothing on TV, so I’m afraid that’s where you’d have found me last weekend. The cat was around somewhere, but as long as he wasn’t bothering me, I wasn’t going to bother about him.
Then he started: “Miaow.” “Miaaoooww.
don't confuse the narrator 