Beside the glass door she calls to me, my old cat.
An old man growing blind I go to her. Out of habit,
out of love, for my old friend, I slide open the door.
She waits there till I come, as she will, for the new owners.
She’ll call them and they, too, will slide open the door.
(She goes with the house, I told them.)
Soon I'll be in the Nursing Home, thinking of her.
I'll hear her, touch her fur - though she won't be there.
(This, I believe in.)
We've only a little longer...
When she sits with me, I tell her how privileged
I’ve been, sharing her world. I tell her she'll always
be in mine; how, when I leave this house, I’ll still
be with her, that when she walks out the door to the world
we both knew, she'll take me too: (This, I believe in.)
To the grass and the trees, the view of the sea from the hill,
the flowers she rubbed in, my friends the birds.
(We sometimes fell out over the birds.)
(I can't have her under my feet, they say.)
The
Poet - Janette Pieloor
Janette
lives in the ACT, Australia.
Reviews
(applause received)
June Parker United Kingdom
"a beautiful sad poem,
echoing many peoples."
Bernadette
Rowley Australia
"Janette perfectly captures the pain and frustration the elderly feel when they must leave their loved pet to enter a Home. Well done!"
robyn
Rose Australia
"this is the best poem in the group. authentic and moving"
My Old Friend 