Conquered

The cat, his fluffy tail
a banner held high,
ignoring all his toys,
does battle with a crinkly
ball of paper.

First, he stalks it, pushes it,
then, with lightning speed,
bats, lifts, and tosses it,
until the crumpled warrior
is conquered.

Through green slits
curtained in darkness,
he stares at me.
Then he leaps on me,
purring and kneading me,

'till I float to the edge
of eternity. My droopy
eyes are a white blur,
my flag of surrender.

I nod, drift, doze,
defeated.

by Mary Naylor

Comments (1)

What a charming word picture you have painted here. Cats are independent. They do not know they are also utterly fragile. But this just makes them more endearing tto their owners. Take care, Mary. Warm regards, Sandra