Feathers NaPoWriMo 24

I have my grandad’s eyes –
“They’re angel’s eyes”, my daughter says –
Those golden flakes, like feathers,
Falling soft against a clear blue sky.

A funny kind of angel, then, my grandad,
Cough sweets, and Errol Flynn moustache. A sweeter soul.

Here’s how it is:
Things drift away, I’ve lost so many things,
Life is a constant sloughing off,
Those golden flakes, like feathers,
Falling soft against a clear blue sky.

I don’t have much of his
To pass on down. His handiwork
All broken up and burned,
His memories blurred to stories,
Then to myth, carved fragments
Almost lost on wind worn stones,
Those golden flakes, like feathers
Falling soft against a clear blue sky.

But still, I’ve passed these on,
These angel eyes. I’ve seen them
Looking from my daughter’s face –
The only part of her I recognise.
That stubborn DNA, hanging on in there,
Stronger than human memory,long lived,
scrawling its signature across our lives,
Those golden flakes, like feathers,
Falling soft against a clear blue sky.

NaPoWriMo suggests an elegy that contains a little bit of hope. I hope this fits the bill. I’m also linking it to dVerse, where Kim asks us to  write about heredity, specifically body parts we’ve inherited. 

Boris – NaPoWriMo 3

It was that noise he made –
Random vowels,
That yowl –
We hear it sometimes
When an engine fails,
Or a gull cries. Sometimes
One of us “does it”,
If we happen
To be reminiscing.

Johnson or Yeltsin?
Someone asked me.
But the name came with him.
It suited him –
Big ugly bruiser,
Dishevelled,
White and blonde.
Languid.
Not an attractive cat.

He was dead before
We took him on –
Resurrected on the day
Our neighbour left,
Reappearing, unangelic,
Unheralded. No one knew
Where he had been,
Or how his ear
Got torn.

We took him in,
Offered the paradise
Of food, bed, cushion,
And he melted
Like butter in the sun,
Hung limp in the arms
Of a small child,
Tolerated kittens,
Cuddles, worming.

Ugly, yes, but so
Good natured,
And so aware,
I always thought,
Of his good luck
In finding us.

That yowl, though,
Shocking –
Shook hands,
Knocked over glasses,
Shook guests,
Knocked over chairs.

And those white hairs –
Because he couldn’t
See you sitting
In the garden
Without climbing aboard.

And he stank.

That yowl, though.

This is by way of an elegy to Boris, who passed away three years ago, after a happy old age. I don’t know much about his earlier years. He’d disappeared for about nine months, and reappared the day his owner left. He’d obviously had a few adventures. He was the best-natured cat I’ve ever known, but had unfortunate personal habits.