14 November: A cat.


A Cat by Edward Thomas from Last Poems.

She had a name among the children;
But no one loved though someone owned
Her, locked her out of doors at bedtime
And had her kittens duly drowned
In Spring, nevertheless, this cat
Ate blackbirds, thrushes, nightingales,
And birds of bright voice and plume and flight,
As well as scraps from neighbours’ pails.
I loathed and hated her for this;
One speckle on a thrush’s breast
Was worth a million such; and yet
She lived long, till God gave her rest.

smart

This is a war poem insofar as it was written when the poet was waiting to go to war. Edward Thomas was aware that joining the army was a dangerous decision during World War I. Of course, we know he did not come home.

The all-killing, all-devouring cat herself lost her own kittens. That is outside her control. She herself kills because that’s the way she is, till God gives her rest. And the war lived long and killed multitudes, because that’s the way it is; out of control.

When I arrived at L’Arche’s Glebe garden the day after reading this poem, I met with this sight. There are at least three cats that patrol the place and one young blackbird the less.

We pray that God may give us a changed heart, so that His world may have a rest from War.

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Filed under Autumn, Daily Reflections, poetry

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