In the still of night, upon the roof,
He lies with eyes that shine, alert.
Not a sound, not a soul.
Around the garden wall he slinks,
With coat as black as coal.
Above the chimney stacks, the moon
Peers down upon the ground.
Among the yards and alleyways
This stranger can be found.
He moves as silent as the night,
With grace and splendour as he prowls,
He creeps on unexpecting prey,
Until the break of day appears,
And then he moves away.
The cat.

by
Helena Cowell (abt 1976)