I love far more to be,
In such good company,
With which the hours grow short,
But of the deepest sort,

In futile ways the toil,
Crowds out such simple loves,
Perhaps this is the soil,
To make a fuller man.

Evening banter in long shadows,
A tall task to turn between -
So many faces embroiled in talk,
Then marching over food to boot,
Plunging into machinations thick,
Colouring our verbal games.

Drawing the week to its end,
Yet I do not hold this folding fabric,
But watch the metal rings above,
Slide along their axes onwards,
Shutting out the light of day,
Closing out this daily play.

A small cat with bright eyes,
Stands frozen to stone before a curious gaze,
On its face - clearly guilty,
On the nose - quite clearly ashamed,
The cavity runs deeper in the treat box,
The tumbling treats more cavernous than innocent days,
It's seems a rough tongue is twisted into bows and knots,
And meowing shall delay for the moment,
Treats will surely come anyway?