The Pub Cat

It was the feline that gave me status

permission to listen, analyse.

I sat by the fire in the country pub

cat napping.  If the house pet

would use my lap to sleep

then they too would bide my presence.

They came from  small farms

of handkerchief fields, and told their stories

each shared memory, safe and familiar,

in its retelling

tribal feelings of self reservation

disarmed temporarily.

I drank from their well

as thirstily as any parched man might do

the cat purred, content with his new lap

and the stroking I gave

she was smug in the knowledge

that I as stranger, 

couldn’t say shoo!

©Copyright Niall OConnor

Image borrowed from Web