I                                                                ­                                              
don't                                                            ­                                        
       scream                                                           ­                             
                   for                                                              ­                      
                       help...                                                          ­              

but
whisper                                                         ­                                                                 ­              


my                                                            ­ 
    words
              so                      
                  soft...               ­                                                                 ­  

small                                                  


as to not lose my voice
                         on such a meaningless task 
                                                     that will go unheard anyways

The cracked and umber, cyan, lichened bark,
its wintry deprivation echoes stark
impoverishment: the denizens live their
neglected, leafless lives, in Highgate Park.

The winter icy earth’s, anaemic fare,
enough for hungry birds and squirrels, there
is insufficient food for bigger beasts,
who huddle, famished, in the frosty air.

A grassland’s faded, green, uncut, now greets
all walkers down its dwindled concrete streets,
replacement for old honeyed flags: new flaws
displacing golden pathways, lined with seats.

The squirrel, hungry in the cold still gnaws
her nuts: she holds the winter food in claws,
and quickly looks for danger, then a pause,
and runs, avoiding snapping canine jaws

I sit and rest beneath the ripening figs,
their pregnant bulges swelling on the tree;
a heavy yoke deforming laden twigs.

In nearby streets a man is walking, he
observes me without line of sight. I’m known
below those purple fruit, in Galilee.

He speaks my life, and secrets I alone
should know; the silent whispers of my heart.
He understands my very blood and bone.

The orchard's dripping fragrance, sweet and ****,
might draw me from the living words he gives.
I measure what’s the cost if I depart
for lighter yokes: reform my bending sprigs
and set out from beneath the ripening figs.

McKenzie sat, the feral cat
a ginger tom, a ***** brat,
he’s on the slab, he's at the vet,
he's innocent of the threat;
as scalpel steel –prepares to lop
his precious assets – for the chop.

He smirks and thinks of bowls of cream.
An instrument now stops his dream
while measuring his body’s heat:
a gross insult to his seat
that turns his grin into a pout
as he pushes the probe out.

This wicked cat – who seems serene,
his outward visage  looks so clean
external dirt can never stick,
but succumbing to his lick
it passes through that moggy’s gut
and out of an unblemished ****.

The player fears the game is up
he sees the proffered poisoned cup,
now he's exposed: the ***** rat.
Dies Irae for that cat –
the stoneless subject of our mirth –
as ball-less he departs the Earth.