Cat

As I walk a farm lane in Leitrim, 
the cat, dressed in a tuxedo 
of black fur with stark-white trim, 
trails ten paces behind me.
 
“Every day I walk long miles, 
sometimes hard miles, sometimes
long and hard and still it doesn’t help.” 
I turn and Cat’s piercing green eyes 
 
catch mine. We were told Cat 
is wild. She, who rubbed her body
against my leg to ask if she might 
accompany me on my morning walk, 
 
is anything but wild. She, who wants 
to crawl into my lap to be stroked 
and scratched, at one time must
have known what it meant to belong,
 
to feel safe, to have a friend. 
That was before she was dumped 
in a nearby pasture and left 
to fend for herself. 
 
Who am I to speak of loss? 
And yet, I do. For two miles
I tell Cat stories about Mother 
as she dodges mud and puddles 
 
so as not to dirty paws she works hard 
to keep pristine. We feed her, as do 
the homeowners when present. Still, 
Cat has a lonely, difficult life. 
 
A low-hanging cloud turns to mist, 
then rain. Cat meows. We turn back. 
“Look,” I point to the sky, “a rainbow!” 
and serenade Cat with songs as I did 
 
my mother every morning for years. 
Back at the cottage, Cat curls up
at my feet and falls asleep. Content.
As am I.