Late at night, in darkness,                     
she crawls out, looking from side to side                      
as if she is crossing the street.                               
It is safe. She crawls out -                                 
like men crawling out of trenches.                              
On the window sill, she                                             
watches the cars go by.
She is old, tired, sixteen in human years.                  
If she naps will it be her last?
Only her owner is afraid.  She knows from the past          
she has more lives to live.    
This life was good, can’t complain.
Tired now, she rests her head.  
In a moment she is dead.       

Phyllis Colgan, November 2000