Mouth frozen in a snarl

grey striped fur

wiry to touch

protected him from elements of Southeast England

noses pressed against the cabinet

sticky sherbet hands splayed on glass

gazed up at this beast cat of future nightmares.

The weather should not have worried him as much as Englishmen's eyes,

his now glass, amber flecks

of autumnal bracken from Ashdown Forest,

dilated black pupils

a hint of stormy moonlight as clouds passed over

reflect the cornering of his death.

Mouth stuffed with another creature shouts of the same fate

different death

curated by a taxidermist,

the moment of a twig cracking, a smoky lunge,

predator and prey felled by a Victorian gun

anonymous hunters and stuffers long gone

Wild Cat, 1888, labelled 'Endangered'

silently speaks volumes to generations.

She emerges from a deep hole of troubled sleep

to start her slow day. Through her bedroom window 

the distant larch – her faithful friend – is waiting. 

Its fills the panes with its greening as new life

sprouts, last year’s cones still clinging.

She has witnessed its changes through many

seasons, how its strong limbs flex under heavy 

snowfall, how it stands firm against stormy winds, 

how it stores food for winter, long-lived survivor.

There are secret cures and sweetness hidden 

beneath its bark. There is shelter in its branches –  

for birds, squirrels, sometimes an owl –

silent wings haunting the darkness of evening.