This poem is dedicated to my mother who died ten years ago. I was proud to be the daughter of this most compassionate, intelligent and graceful of women. She loved to see me write, because she knew that writing made me fly. She loved me unconditionally, and I try to emulate her.
.2014-05-15 17.53.55

Through dim lit, secret woodland
I creep
Unsnapped twigs beneath padded paws
Tickle briefly
As controlled muscles swell to fit their purpose.
I am the hunter, the killer
The monster
Of a million small animal fears.

In their flurry for food and fornication
Feather brained birds
Forget to fear me
Slyly I select one
And suddenly I spring.
The pandemoneum
Of panicked wings
Does not deter me.
In my way
I can fly too.
Airbourne, twisting,
I capture the straggler
A puny morsel
But it satisfies my hunger
For blood and sport.

I saunter away
Renewed, proud,
The victor.
Spare energy assails me, and I run, climb, spin,
Chase my tail
Revelling in absurdity
Freeing the kitten within

Then langorously I stroll
Past bright sun cradled blooms
And warm stone walls
Into the cottage
Where under the withered eyes of obedient servants
I sleep.

© Jane Paterson Basil


16 thoughts on “SUPREMACY

    1. Thank you. That’s a lovely thing to say. I don’t refer to myself as a poet; short stories are my usual vehicle, but I try to make them read like poetry. Maybe I’ll do some more poetry.


      1. I find it’s all trial and error. Sometime I feel a piece is great and no one seems to notice it, other times I might feel the opposite and people like.

        But you definitely are a poet, and I hope you keep doing you. The judge of your work isn’t always in the reader’s reactions.

        Liked by 2 people

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