George
(28/8/1970)
We had three cats at Gilmorton Farm, Udny. George (who was actually a tabby - someone made a mistake) got run over one day and we were heartbroken. My angle for the poem was the senseless coincidence of inanimate objects and so much human feeling. I think there may also be something of a geologist's sense of time also.
I expect the rocks and the soil had been there for ages.
Probably since the Ice Age, more or less undisturbed,
Except for the occasional ploughing,
And that wouldn't really go very deep.
And I don't suppose they ever knew about George
'Cos she wasn't even a year old.
She was a tortoiseshell cat
But when she was born we thought she was a tom
And called her George.
She wasn't very bright but she was real good looking,
With the finest tail I believe I ever saw on a cat,
Long and ever so wide and fluffy,
Like a flag.
I expect the flowers were even younger - just a few days old -
'Cos they were still fresh,
And the plants they came from were only of a summer's growth.
Some were foxgloves and there were some lilac daisies and
I think a few leaves and things.
And the newspaper was the twenty-fourth's
And only four days old.
I don't suppose anybody could have predicted they would all come together.
But we wrapped George with the flowers in the newspaper
And buried her in the rocks and soil tonight!