The cat’s in the spinney and wears his white pinny
white socks on the tips of his paws,
he licks whiskers clean, rubs his ears so they sheen
and scratches the bark with his claws.
He stretches a yawn, sprawls out on the lawn
sinks down while his head lolls aside
and you think he’s asleep as he lies in a heap
but his tail jumps and flicks on his side.
Oh how nice it would be to have time like he
to lie back and slip out of this sphere
but there’s no open doors, no windows, no floors,
and you have to keep running for fear
lest the next overtakes and you’re put on the stake
for envying cats who don’t care
if the firm has gone bust or the car’s turned to rust
and you yawn without turning a hair.
How nice to have dreams so that everything seems
much nicer, much clearer than real,
with your tail twitching on, and your paw pouncing on
that delicious imaginary mouse;
for he tastes so good in this land of nod,
but oh, what a shock to awake:
for it’s only his pinny, it’s only the spinney,
and his dreams have gone floating away.