Cats, Poetry & Death #42 Gone but not forgotten

Cats, Poetry & Death #42
Gone but not forgotten

 
When he came he was so small,
sleeping on the Poet’s shoulder,
whilst he read Dickens and The Bard;
he was supposed to have a name
but cat names don’t come easy
so just for a while he was Gizmo.

Growing bigger by the day,
large and fluffy and fun,
sleeping with his playmate,
playing with the Poet;
black all over except for his white tummy,
he’d stroll in the gardens
and be home for tea,
the name never did come,
so Gizmo he remained.

Time and tide passed as ever,
the sands slipping down
and ever more his wanderings grew longer
but home he always found,
till one day he took to strolling
and never did return,
the playmate pined,
the Poet cried,
and Gizmo was no more.

Thought and photographs recall,
the time so happily spent
and never was it known why or where he went
but though he his long gone and missed
and his playmate now laid to rest;
he is still remembered,
so small and so playful,
so fluffy and so fun,
the Poet cries still,
Oh! Where did Gizmo go?

Iain

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