Tripping daintily across the lawn,
He stopped dead mid-stride,
Sinking down to the ground,
A stationary, static statue.
But try as he might
He had no control of his tail
Which twitched from left to right
While his st-ut-ter-ed mews
Were inaudible to my ears.
He crawled, chameleon-like,
Forward towards his prey,
A dear little dove of softest grey.
But the closer he came
The tail had a life of its own,
And the bird flew away ‘til another day.
©Denise G Allen, 04 December 2013 07:18