My Poetry: His Royal Moggyness

His Royal Moggyness

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Beneath his chin
his knees neatly folded
his royal moggyness sat
caring not for what hid
behind the sofa
or the lace curtains
or even the door
on this day
when clouds were being
rung dry of their water
like an old bit a rag,
or a lover stood at window
waiting for an adulterer’s return.

Jack, for that was his name,
sat still as a nun’s blouse
silently thunking
about all the ickle mouses
he would catch when sun come.
Trapping their tiny tails
with the pad of his paw
in pastures dyed green
by showers of summer
sun and drenchy 

rain

.

How he would gently coax,
with hirsute whiskered grin,
the scaredy ickle mices
from the hidey corners
into playing catchy
and go runneth, when
they wished neither to be caught
or to be a play thing
for this nefarious feline
who only cared to play
when his regalness
was feeling rather frisky.

But that was for all
another day,
thought Jack, as he sat
on his mat,
for this day,
was perfect for purring
and dreaming
as the grey day filled
the windows with steaming.