The decapitated mouse head
He left beneath your chair
Signalled the arrival of spring.
Each night he slips out
Into the balmy red air
Catching the scent of the day
In his skin.
We lay on top of sheets,
Expectant and listening
To the sound of new born lambs
Mewing distant in the night.
While the cat,
At the last of his nine lives,
Is loose in the neighbourhood,
Eager with experience,
Tail up, swinging back to us,
With death in his mouth.