Poems (Forrest)/The black cat

by Mabel Forrest

THE BLACK CAT

What does the black cat dream, when sleeping
 On its scarlet cushion beside the fire?
Slits of yellow thro' dark brows peeping,
 A lazy yawn, as the flame leaps higher,
Is it pondering summers the world has lost
In these July evenings white with frost?

I seem to see, as I watch its slumber,
 The witches gathered in fiery ring,
A score of toads that the hard earth cumber,
 A carrion crow and a gallows swing,
And a wild wind-storm o'er a shuddering land,
And a cauldron stirred by a dead man's hand.

What eerie rites does your mind recall,
 Domestic cat, on the hearth asleep?
Did you climb the vine by the old brick wall?
 Where the winter blossoms were buried deep,
I heard midnight chime—and I saw you pass
All sleek and subtle across the grass.

And you swayed for a moment, tight-rope walker,
 Along the crest of the paling fence,
A pocket panther, a shadow-stalker,
 A tiger too, in your proud pretence,
For the Night had shod you with magic shoon,
But I saw you—black on the yellow moon!

How that scarlet cushion is suited to you,
 For every witch has her scarlet cloak,
Do you hope I will prove your friend, now, do you?
 When your reputation goes up in smoke,
And your air respectable proves you liar,
Who danced all night round a goblin fire!

You would not confess . . . tho' we understood
 What you meant by purrs . . . or a high meaw,
You intend that the world shall deem you good,
 You will throw your dust in our eyes somehow!
. . . Tho' the pads of your small pink feet are sore,
When the moon is full, you will dance once more!