The Kittens' Lament

Now Quince and Peregrine,
The tortoiseshell and black,
Are gone.
Fine-footed cats,
They led us in our games,
Or some—

Time in, time out
They caught young thrushes in the hedge
And ate
Their delicate heads with us;
The bodies arranged suitably
Checkmate

In rows on the library carpet.
With great daring, we watched them
When once
They dragged a tiny silver-bellied
Eel to the door, and carelessly
Crunched,

From tail to head. But now
They are gone, there is nothing for us
To do
But to suffer our meat and milk
And brood
In the long afternoons on the bridge,
Dabbling catspaws in the stream.

—Kirsty Northcote-Bade