It's strange how cats like walking on

freshly raked soil

much as children like treading on

crumbly new molehills.

But the difference surely is that a cat

doesn't want to spoil

what's underfoot in order to get

a sense of power that thrills.

Gardening

Non-gardeners think that gardening's

all about sowing and planting things

whereas the battle hardened know

that's just a skirmish to make things grow.

Real action comes later with marauding thugs -

rampant weeds and ravenous slugs.

Things that flow give pleasure in the flowing -

rivers, summer clouds, ice dancers.

Things that show give pleasure in the showing -

flowers, autumn trees, beauty.

Things that grow give pleasure in the growing -

plants, animals, children.

After all those years of seeing you

as a dominating sexual bastard,

today while working my allotment

I had a moment of revelation.

Not every job can be done standing up.

Weeding demands some kneeling down.

Now I see you as amateur gardener -

get down on it, green James Brown.

Lock down the larder. Mask the fridge.

Keep safe distance from the freezer.

Working from home sets me on edge,

food temptation such a squeezer.

What will the next pandemic be?

Something linked to obesity.

Rush hour in the branches

 Blowing with the falling leaves

a sudden squall of blue and great

and long tailed tits all intermingled

sailed the brisk December breeze.

I wondered why an avian flock

so diverse flowed for several minutes,

all streaming in the same direction,

through the winter wasted trees.

Nothing apparently pursuing

so, intent on destination,

perhaps encouraging each other

they can go wherever they please.

But they're flying to who knows where?

Still too warm to really care

escaping the mid-winter cold

before the fields and gardens freeze.

Perhaps they're spurred by casual stories

heard from chiff chaff or some warblers

of places where the sun's still warm

and life is lived with greater ease.

Certainly they're heading south

surfing on the chill north wind,

tumbling through the straggled branches

of my garden's apple trees.

She's the attractive one. I'm just her friend.

She gets attention from all of the men

jostling each other to ask her to dance.

They don't notice me, except maybe a glance.

Sure, I'm not happy at being ignored

but it's better than staying at home to get bored.

I know I'm not beautiful, can't expect much

but every so often enjoy a guy's touch.

And she understands - as soon as I can

I'll go my own way and swap her for a man.