The silken Cat,
Appearing like the Sphinx ‒
Silent and inscrutable ‒
Sits, watches...and thinks...
But exactly what...
Is hard to know...
It observes us
In every aspect
Throughout the day...
In moods of joy...
Or black despair...
In love, nakedness,
In tears, asleep,
Work, play, aggression, fear.
Perhaps the thoughts
That flow
Below its ruffled brow
Are magnanimous,
Reflecting affection...
Or maybe acceptance
At our behaviour...
It’s impossible to say.
Or maybe even
Deep thoughts
About the meaning
Of it all...
And our role
As benefactors and guardians...
We large, imperfect creatures
Out on this earth (apparently)
To house, feed, entertain
And cosset
In every way
Throughout their lives,
Short relative to ours...
Or most probably
(Or so we would like to believe)...
Their thoughts revolve
Around mere mice
Scurrying in the darkness...
An abstraction
Made flesh by sound and smell...
It is an unsolved riddle
The ancient Egyptians knew well...
Although similarly,
Could not solve...
Such is the silken cat
With its strange, impelling powers
And which may hold secrets...
But will never tell.
