after Pangur Bán, Anon, 9th century

I make this prayer to God above
to help our poor cat, Pangur Dubh.
It must be seven months ago
he caught a mouse, then let it go.

From lauds to vespers, days are long
and all monks here arise at dawn,
and each of us must play his part:
to farm and pray and ply this art

that colours every word I spell
like water drawn from a well,
while this cat drowses, half-asleep.
Can he be moved to earn his keep

and get a thrill (like his white twin)
in wars that only cats can win
impaling mice on those sharp claws,
obeying Nature’s simple laws?

Or are they simple? Who can find
an entry to this creature’s mind
inscrutable as any text
that has me up, past midnight, vexed,

distracted by the mice that come
and go in the scriptorium,
while Pangur sleeps on, fathomless,
a pool of darkness near my desk

But when he stirs and, yawning, wakes
and stretches with that feline grace,
in bestiaries of cats and mice
his mere existence will suffice.

Mark Granier's sixth collection of poetry, Everything You Always Wanted to Know, is forthcoming from Salmon Poetry next month