The widow Begbick’s tale
 
“My silver winged cat claws at the air
Harvesting rain as the sparrows sigh
How like him with his pure cry
To shake the night of its doleful cares.
 
Three o’clock, at a widow’s guess
Trailed on the kite of his rasping purr:
Rubbery nose and haunting fur
Comport his lightening flesh.
 
He settles on my groin
Grazing ease that sleeps all words:
Calm, on this common chord
We share a dream that pares at dawn.
 
Once, a year ago in Christmas time
Howling for all the dead
Silver Wings slumped near the window ledge
Fed by a neighbours crime!”
 
 

 
 
 
 
Gar Jones