Dark has cloaked the garden path
and the street light glints in
the birds small bath,
past sweetly scented mint and sage,
a shadow flits onto
the silent stage.
Enter Horace, right on cue
on his nightly hunting
for titbits new.
Slipping through the garden gate
on an urgent quest,
and rarely late.
Front paws resting on a dish
he takes his time to drink,
no need to rush.
When he’s full from food supplied
he’s off looking for
a place to hide.
We are one stop he has found,
garden cafe on his
nocturnal round.
We watch in hope at each days end
for the shadow of our
visiting friend.