Freya.
Following, belly low to ground, soft paw padding,
in the long grass, treading down the dandelions.
Wanting to mimic that grace,
that supple rhythm of movement,
shoulderblades rising
and falling
with each step,
seeing the elegant
bone-machine
beneath the fur.
Wanting to know that alertness,
alive to each fluctuation in the air,
each movement
registered in the corner
of the eye, each sound
falling out of place.
the sudden frictionless pause,
one paw still upraised, rigid.
Eyes wide, ears twitching,
so that it seems
you can almost see
the sound enter.
Become feline, pink skin swathed in fur,
moonlit eyes, enfolded in night, suavely violent.
Space is flattened out, unparceled.
this wall, dividing my garden
from neighbour's garden,
means nothing, we spring
to top of it, stalk
along it, drop
delicately
to far side of it.
These are merely marks on the map,
are merely political, merely man made, offer
no impediment to movement, check
no impulse,
are no barrier
to desire.