Domestic Drama

I will return to my Mum's story when I get some more time, but this is just a wee reflection on the drama outside my breakfast window this morning distracting me from pressing work.  The picture isn't of our huntress, couldn't be bothered going out into the cold and damp to capture this drama on camera... I really wouldn't have made the grade as a David Attenborough cameraman...

The age old drama
Of predator and prey
Played out in a suburban garden;
Death crouching in the flowerbed,
Garlanded with yellow blossoms.
Narrowed eyes darting,
Watching for flitting quarry.
An Egyptian goddess observing
The fall of every sparrow, and robin,
As assiduously as our heavenly Father.
Ears flicking, muscles coiled;
Finally unleashed
In a blurred flurry of fur,
Frustrated by a lack of wings.

Regathering her dignity
The huntress returns
Settling for dried pellets,
Rather than fresh feathered flesh,
Then settling down 
on a human servant's lap
To be petted and purr,
Peaceful innocence restored.



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