Minerva thinks she's vanished, quite,
a shadow poured into the night,
that pools beneath the window seat,
so still, so silent, so discreet.
She watches me with emerald eyes
(though these too, she doth theorize,
are hidden well in folds of dark).
The clever creature who leaves no mark,
no whisker-tip, no velvet ear,
for prying human eye to peer.
A perfect crime of hide-and-seek,
but, ah Her tail ! That traitor-speak.
For there, where she believes unseen,
a plume of black slips itself between,
the curtains , and the window case,
a living, twitching, ink-black lace.
by the slip of a tongue, men fumble and fail,
but Minerva gets caught by the slip of her tail.
it taps a rhythm on the floor,
then stills, then flicks, then stills once more.
Oh tail, thou little snitch,
thou sly little spy!
Thou curtain-twitch,
thou velvet lie!
She wills thee still, thou wilt not cease.
She plans thy stillness, thou art piece,
by piece betraying where she hides
with every flick those folds betides.
Dost thou not know she means to stay
concealed till I have turned away?
Dost thou not care for her only wish?
(and must I say, that last swaying-swish,
was particularly seen, dear tail,
it doth her hiding-place unveil.)
At last she knows the game is done,
her tail's confession hath undone
the careful silence she designed,
she rises, stretches, now resigned.
And blinks at me as if to say,
"I know not how thou found'st me. Nay,
I was perfection, still as stone,
my tail, it seems, hath thoughts its own."
I pour the tea, she claims her chair,
her tail curls round her, unaware,
that in its languid, slow repose
it still betrays, but now it shows -
not where she hides, but that she knows
she's found, and loved, and so she stays,
curled in the warmth of morning rays.
The tail flicks once more. I smile, a silent praise.