Familiar by Emma Neale

The cat comes inside,
scent of wood smoke in his fur
black coat beaded with cold
as the sky is with stars.

One ear is nicked,

devilishly cloven by an old fight.

There are strands in his tail
the grey of close calls
but he’s a keg of a cat:
laughter drinks from him.

Often we ask what he thinks of the situation:
he winks, but he’s got his own tongue.