The larks no longer fear the lawn
soundly sleeps the shrew.
Sparrows splash in sunlit pools,
while wrens feed in full view.
The catnip grows unhindered now;
the grit lies undisturbed.
The mice no longer fear his paws –
he’s killed his final bird,
for rustled grass, the rush of feet,
signals not a feast,
and weeks have passed since last he snared
the scent of bird or beast.
Though master, once, of every creature,
quartered in his fief,
he ends his days the servant
of an unrelenting chief.
To thirst, the silent predator,
he’s ceaselessly on call,
hunkered by a dripping tap
that holds him now in thrall.
He watches as the droplets form,
snares them for his master,
then taps the faucet with a paw,
urges it, drip faster.
The master’s satisfaction wanes;
it soon enough will fade
just as he grew weary
of the mice with which he played.
And when the morsels fail to
sate the master’s appetite,
he’ll come to me and silently
beseech I end the fight.