Grey on grey

Death, tho’ I see him not, is near
And grudges me my eight[teenth] year.
Now, I would give him all these last
For one that fif[teen] have run past.
Ah! he strikes all things, all alike,
But bargains: those he will not strike.


Apologies to Walter Savage Landor for tampering with his words to make them fit old Cobweb, whose last summer this may well be. But, still nimble, she is enjoying it as usual, sprawled on the warm self-coloured slate, and she pays no heed to the new litter of kittens born to Truffle last week. They are nothing to do with her, except for the possibility that, over the years, our original cats' offspring may have contributed to north Pembrokeshire's feline genepool. Cobweb's had kittens herself but, truth to tell, she was never sold on motherhood even when she was young and grey, and both her eyes were green.