! The Poem Called Poem by Michael Shepherd

and when the cat had finished drinking
and he had watched that delicate pink tongue
lapping as carefully as any lady
and had wondered whether cats enjoy this patient method
or whether they long to pour it down their throats, carelessly
and savagely, as they live wildly in the nights

then he heard the poem call
faintly, almost indifferently, the sound unmistakeable
yet always different
this time it came from a far distance
beyond the cat, though the cat was somehow part of it,
beyond the yard where he had once and never forgot
put a bullet into the old dog that
could not stop shaking

beyond the barn, beyond the field
where he nuzzled his favourite of the horses
and it allowed this intimacy, patiently;

so far beyond, so faint, the cry that poems make
as they, like cats, like dogs, like horses
who know nature so much more certainly than we
the sound that poems make as they wait patiently
to be found

he walked towards it but many times was lost,
he had to stop, stand still, listen,
and wait to hear that sound
recognisable but different every time

and when he and the poem had found each other
they were for a moment, silent, still,
then both turned to look over his shoulder
to where, yet further still,
the next poem had begun to call to him, faintly, almost indifferently,
the sound familiar, yet never quite the same