Rites of Spring

by Tom Harding
The decapitated mouse head
He left beneath your chair
Signalled the arrival of spring.
Each night he slipped out
Into the balmy red air,
Catching the scent of the day
In his skin.
We lay on top of sheets,
Expectant and listening
To the sound of newborn lambs
Mewing somewhere in the night.
Meanwhile the cat
Was loose in the neighbourhood,
Working the last of his nine lives,
Eager with experience,
Tail up, swinging back to us,
With death in his mouth.

Tom Harding lives in Northampton UK where, when not working, he write spoetry and draws.  He has been published in various places including Parameter Magazine, Identity Theory, Unlikely Stories and Nthposition.  He also maintains a website of his own work at tomarianne.net.

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