Shadows down the street like liqueur, black cat,
soft-ridge shoulders and rusty purr, black cat.
Nose in the air like her paws float on clouds,
starlight in her eyes, a silver bur, black cat.
There is something of the witch about her,
all natural, green and larkspur, black cat.
Dust-mote tongue laps the night from a puddle,
her empty belly full of myrrh, black cat.
She walks with all that history, worship,
coronation-stride to the future, black cat.
Rolls the quartzy night-smoke on her shoulders,
meanders like drunkard’s blurred slur, black cat.
Fireworks refract dreams onto dustbin lids
and it is all just fish to her, black cat.
Ellora Sutton is a British writer (and museum gift shop worker) who has recently graduated with a first in Journalism and Creative Writing from the University for the Creative Arts. Her obsessions include poetry and Jane Austen.