The Cat in the Cupboard

It’s midwinter. We’ve travelled to Gloucester,
to see family members again.
We were glad of the car’s new defroster,
for the snow and the sleet and the rain.

There is sludge everywhere – gardens, fields,
and it’s not a good day for a walk.
We’d need brollies as solid as shields!
But the grown-ups are starting to talk.

Now we have to find rainwear and wellies,
and prepare for a terrible trip.
We’ll work off all the lunch in our bellies,
yet I’m worried I might slide and slip.

I’ve forgotten my snug socks this visit,
but the laundry room’s just up the stairs –
and in there, I see something exquisite,
in the cupboard where fresh washing airs.

It is Cian the cat, and he’s napping,
keeping cosy midst bedsheet and towel –
he has fashioned a wonderful wrapping,
like a habit a monk wears, with cowl.

For a moment, I want to be Cian,
all wrapped up in a cupboard, and warm,
with no risk of the coughing and sneezing
that could come with a midwinter storm.

But I take out the socks while he dozes,
big and ginger and smiling with glee –
then I’m sure, as the door halfway closes,
that I hear the cat laughing at me!