She gazes down from on high,
an eastern potentate surveying her domain.
Her eyes are yellow lamps
slowly shuttered against the sun.
Her body gently quivers
as she rumbles her contentment.

We her unworthy handmaids and slaves
offer morsels for her delectation.
She deigns to notice us
and slowly rises
leaping supple as a dancer
from her lofty throne.

She pads across the floor
her tail held aloft,
a victory banner,
to see if tea tonight
is worthy of her feline palate.

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No explanation necessary this week except to say that Xena is our blue and cream tortoiseshell. At eighteen years old and deaf, she is still ruler of all she surveys.
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©Catherine Meyrick 2016
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