A confederacy of ginger cats
Meets in my garden, fur in every shade
From ripest peach and hothouse apricots,
To the orange of Oxford Marmalade.
They meet once a week, often just sit there,
No hissing, yowling, not even in fun,
On garden bench, table, and plastic chair,
Being ginger, each one’s a gentleman.
It’s perhaps a group for neutered cats
To reminisce on what might have been,
And to thoroughly wash their private bits,
Or the empty places they last were seen.
Each one sits and licks and sadly reflects
On half-forgotten worlds of alley sex.
© James Nash 2014
The text of a poem submitted and accepted for a new anthology ‘The Garden’ to be published by OWF Press. Based on my ginger cat Gordon who regularly hosts Ginger Cat Club meetings in my garden.