What the Cat Saw

When everyone has gone to bedand the big light’s off downstairs,the cat from number nine goes out.Her name is Smudge. She stares.

She goes along the garden walland down between the cars,where frost has drawn on every roofa map of all the stars.

The church clock strikes the hour: twelve.A pause. And then, as clearas anything, it strikes thirteen.That’s when the things appear.

The park is locked. The end swing, wherethe littlest children sit,is swinging high with no one on.And Smudge looks back at it.

The night bus rattles down the hill,its top deck brightly lit,with nobody behind the wheel.And Smudge looks back at it.

The empty house at number twohas curtains, and a slitbetween them where a pale face looks.And Smudge looks back at it.

Behind the houses, by the bins,where washing hangs, a bitof white comes loose and walks away.And Smudge looks back at it.

And then they come, all up our road,to where the children sleep:the one who swings, the night bus, andthe face, the sheet. They creep

up to the wall. And on the wallsits Smudge. She doesn’t spit.She doesn’t hiss. She doesn’t run.She just looks back at it.

She sits there till the sky goes greyand all the dark wears thin,and then the bin men’s lorry comesand they all slink back in.

So if she sleeps the whole day throughand doesn’t want a fuss,you’ll know where she has been all night:out looking after us.