George.
For George.
Waiting lowly on the garden gate,
for me, every other day or so, or more;
black baby beauty with tiny mews—
we’d chat for while, while he balanced,
staying often after I was gone and warm.
I remember my birthday visit well—
or me in the garden, potting cuttings,
sunning with me, on weathered old slabs,
while I shovelled, molded, hopeful;
or scooping him up with a loving arm.