Thursday, 11 August 2016

Coming to Katsuma: A poetry post

What can I say? Nothing sensible. My beautiful, massive cat is sick, dangerously sick, and I am beside myself, but writing about it helps. Nothing fits into a poem like the ones I usually write though. I can't make this fit. I can't make the feelings fit. So I'm going a bit freestyle. I don't know if it's good. I don't know if it's worthwhile sharing. But I'd have liked to have read it while I was Googling this stuff recently, and it helps me to write. So this is it.





Coming to Katsuma

The sun was shining when I heard his voice.
I'd taken out the washing, 
filling up the line when I heard his call,
and then again.

I didn't think it was him.
He is not a chatty cat.
But how strange, there 
and again, and the sound does not move.

So, dropping pegs I went to see.
And I found him.
Hiding in a leafy hedge
beside a tall fence.
Perhaps he'd fallen?

He spoke to me,
distress evident on his face.
No blood.
"Come out." I said. "Come out."
He replied most insistently
but he did not move.

Away then.
Fetch a mat and a towel.
Even fetch the secateurs.
I'll get him out of there.
If I should move him?

But back again and he has moved.
A little.
But movement can be made.

"Come out." I said. "Come out."
And he steeled himself,
and out he came,
dragging his leg,
puffing his breath,
breaking my heart.
I called the vet.

"Come in." She said. "Come in."
and she asked of cars
and health and habits
and I do not know.
He was fine. He should be fine.
And she spoke of hearts
and blood and clotting,
and X-rays and bloods,
and goodness only knows,
and she asked if I was insured.

And she sent us up to Glasgow
to a hospital for cats
I didn't know existed.
To a French vet who smiled
and asked me all the questions.
To receptionists and forms and nice comments.
"What a lovely name."
"I do like your hair. 
It's like under-the-sea."

And maybe death might be kinder.

And oxygen and medicine and bloods.

And tears and stroking my stoned wee guy.

And maybe perhaps just slight improvements.

And I don't want him to die.

And I don't want him to suffer.

And one more day.

And one more day.

And one more day.

And stroking. 
Laying hands upon the miscreant leg.
I imagine white light.
"Come on." I say. "Come on."