After tea
And homemade cake,
And the crossword,
We heard,
Sitting in a London garden,
A wild, screeching sound.
“What was that?”, I said.
“A fox with it’s prey”.
Soon the screeching ceased
And our sunny day
Returned to peace.
A quick death
Is best.
And the dead
Read no romanticising poetry
Of death.
A cat will play with a mouse and thrust,
Much to we humans disgust,
Nature red in tooth and claw
Into our face.
The hounds will chase
The fox, and it leaves me bereft
For it is we who take pleasure in the creature’s death.
It is a truth profound
That the cat and the hound
Can not be bad,
But sometimes I think,
That we humans are mad.
For the blank
Stare
Of the fish tank,
thank
the shark
Who dwelt in the dark
He has had his wish
And eaten all the fish,
But can no longer glare
As consuming his source of food
Perforce
The reaper stark
Did intrude
And made the shark
His food …
K Morris - Poet 