Shadow cat,

eyes periphery-alert,

stretched wide to encompass

backyard universe.

He knows I am watching,

behind double glazed, white face

moon-distant

and dishwater-hazed.

He leans weight delicate-forward

on soft-planted paw

as if rapier-ready to touch and score

or retreat, pragmatic

if opponent proves rancorous,

churlish, cantankerous,

cruel.

I am not.

I grin, bemused

as discomforted Tom sneaks

quick, guilty licks

from designated bird bath.

What's it taste like, naughty one –

your filched finch drink that has you so tongue-tied?