Beneath the cat flap
on the back door mat
lies this morning’s grisly gift
from my carnivorous cat.
Easy pickings for him now
as summer fledglings leave the nest
and flutter flightless to the ground,
a prey to claws that tear the breast.
In the garden a mother robin,
her little body racked with grief,
utters bursts of twittered curses
to indict the murdering thief.
A jury of jays and thrushes
gives its verdict on the accused:
guilty of wanton child-killing;
my recumbent cat looks on, unmoved.
He knows he won’t be punished
for being red in tooth and claw
as l, his fond accomplice,
am not ruled by wildlife law.