THE NIGHTLY PROWLER
Silenced day flight birds
dreamily twist and toss,
in comfy soup bowl beds
of woven twig and moss.
Swivel parabolic ears,
to catch the remotest sound.
The chatter of radar bat
missing objects all around.
But I am graceful feline
not a canine sniffy dog.
A stealthily prowling tom
to other cats known as mog.
Not one of those alley cats
chasing young girl up rain-pipe.
I am something more than that
an aristocatty type.
I prowl the grassy banks
of a moon beam’s watery bed.
Searching for the mice and voles
as they snuggle down their head.
This is my lordly jungle
in scale I am the lion.
The grassy tufted tussock
is no less than lofty Zion.
My eyes are shiny beacons
un-reflective in the day.
Eye-lashed bright headlight beams
to freeze my nightly prey.
Humans don’t see me a hunter
as I purr upon their knees;
thinking in all innocence
only they I aim to please,
Cat-play toys are training me
for my night-time foray trips.
Then as pet return to them
and my willow basket kips.
The morning birds sing loudly
my prowler thoughts have come back.
If I hunt in the day-time
I will always find a snack.
Written by Ross Caplin, first posted to the People's Poetry Bookshelf on 22nd April 2013.
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