Eric

A poem about a cat, a neighbourhood, and the small ways a place remembers those who lived there.

First came the howl.
People stopped to listen.
Someone in trouble, surely.
Then came the bell.

He'd appear from beneath his bush,
screaming at passing strangers.
The bell gave people warning.
Then the howl. Then Eric.

Smoky grey and sleek,
with a cat's confidence, convinced
every passer-by hoped for a conversation.
He'd talk to anyone.
Those in the know answered.

The other cat watched from a distance,
patient, knowing better.
There was no explaining Eric.
After a while you stopped looking.
You knew he'd announce himself.

The bell usually came first.
Some mornings, a greeting.
Others, suspiciously, an opinion.
We moved away years ago.

He's buried beneath his bush,
his favourite place to sleep.
Someone else lives in the house now.
I don't know if they know he's there.

Some places remember people.
Some remember cats.