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by Helen Crichton

My dear old puss,
she always loved the garden,
To spread herself along a sun warmed wall,
Or watch the winder water-puddles harden,
And catch the whirling snowflakes as they fall.
My lovely puss,
her fur was soft and shining,
Her topaz eyes would widen in the gloom,
A soft and silky wraith,
I’d feel her twining
Around my ankles as I left a room.
She chased the wind in Spring,
the leaves in Autumn,
Clapping her paws upon a butterfly,
And blinked in mild surprise to see the snow come,
Slitting her eyes to watch the winter sky.
She died in Winter,
when the ground was frozen,
I found it hard to dig a tiny grave,
But though I mourn,
I’m grateful I was chosen,
To take the love and loyalty she gave.

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