a waterfall of sleeping cat
spills from my lap
his purr thrumming through my thigh
up to my heart
a comfortable heaviness
this curl of cat
rising and falling
with each breath I take
each low hum of purr
a sleep song of
The Chair by Felicity Sidnell Reid
The chair had always been substantial,
found abandoned in a run-down property,
destined to become their family home.
Both demanded restoration of their dignity and grandeur.
In her father’s house it was his chair,
the undisputed seat of dominance,
whence he surveyed his shrinking kingdom,
as age and illness left him beached on it.
He sat, a stony idol, dark eyes flickering,
in his white face, crowned by silvery hair.
And when he died, she took it by default
since no-one else could find a use for it.
But where to put it? A little shabby now:
the crimson velvet rubbed, the stuffing holding
firm an old man’s shape, that now she
understands was the most personal
legacy she could receive from him.
She hauls the chair to the window
that overlooks her garden. Its cushioned arms
console her as she settles in its warm embrace.
It will be my chair now, she thinks, watching her cat
drawn towards sunshine, braced to leap into her lap.
Shelter by Kim Aubrey
Sand slows shoes, shapes
this walk into meditation.
Silver eyes flash from the dark inside
the swallow’s house atop its slender pole.
Wind and sun perform their alchemy
on Lake Ontario, conjure
jewel tones of my homeland
Bermuda’s reef-encircled seas.
On the point, a woman in a red coat
passes under a bent bough
makes the space beneath
briefly resemble a pop tent.
Mermaids dance on a pink pail tilted
from a branch, waiting to be filled.
The day tips, sways, pauses at the twig end
of Week Eight’s distancing and isolation,
offers its emptiness to contain,
meet, shelter whatever comes.