I have barely started these nocturnal labours
when the local cats come: first the neighbours’
fluffy white kitten bumps me with her nose.
Ginger Sheba, a ghost tiger, weaves and flows
between the stalks, and little black Felix
stares down from the eaves as Calico One licks
and preens against my legs and hand.
What is it brings this multi-coloured little band
of pirates and cupboard-lovers in the moon-glow
to watch me weed? What fascinates them so?
They put aside their complex games and stare
at what I do, moon-eyed like lynxes in some lair.
Is there some echo of Eden in this scene:
animals watching a man make things as they might have been?