Poetry

When tea is made at half past seven
and again at eleven
he comes from the grass where he has been hiding
or from a tree down he comes sliding,
purring with agate eyes in a haze
as if the whole world is caught in his gaze
and suddenly the black and white housecat is there
while he steps purring nearer with great care
and lovingly he brushes against my legs
with those huge green eyes that begs
for some hot tea
and again at half past three
I have my cat’s loving company.