The house is full of empty spaces
where once a black shape wandered,
sleek in his feline body,
perched high in his superiority,
two golden eyes
in their glossy black coat
surveying the surroundings,
like a king in his castle.

Stroppy, demanding, bossy,
and always in charge
of the underlings who fed him,
he slept his time away,
curled like a snail,
head beneath tail
or slyly stretching to push
any human out of the way.

He had the run of Leyborne Park,
left his collar in Cumberland Avenue,
climbed trees to the top
as a kitten and couldn’t remember
how to get down.
He had a penchant for frogs,
didn’t kill them but liked to watch them
jump around my kitchen.

His purr reverberated on my chest,
morning and night, or on my lap
as we watched Emily in Paris
or Slow Horses together of an evening,
in quiet companionship.
I knew he loved me as he dribbled
and head butted my chin,
The house is empty without him.