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Rated: E · Poetry · Animal · #2262709
Ballet Purrfection. Bravissimeow.
Moonlight stared, not unkindly, in at the kitchen window.
The supper plates, had been washed carefully and stacked to dry.
The dishcloth lay folded next to them, and the table cloth had been shaken free of crumbs,
and spread in readiness for tomorrow's breakfast.
On a knitted cushion, on a chair beneath the table, an elderly tom cat is sleeping.

Only the occasional twitch of an ear gives any clue
to his dreams of queens and mice and small birds,
and of the gentle hand that strokes,
the soft voice that calls, and saucers of creamy milk.

On a Welsh dresser that is currently quilted soft with shadows,
sits a radio, now silent, that all the
day has burbled in low comforting tones, providing
company and music, up until the shipping forecast
signalled that it was bedtime.
Now all is still in the warm cosy room
that smells faintly of the dinner time pesto.

At the soft click of the cat flap, Diaghilev opened
an eye, to observe Tamara Karsavina as she
surreptitiously slipped in on silken silver paws.
At her polite meow of greeting, Diaghilev rose
and stretched, then jumped down to press his nose to hers with a soft
chirrup of welcome.

They turned, as heavy set Prokofiev heaved himself unhurriedly through the flap,
to land with a slight splat upon the mat.
He waddled towards them, tail held high,
to exchange a kiss with Tamara, and offer a friendly mewl to his host.

With an effortless stretch and a spring, Tamara then leapt upon the dresser.
A practiced paw pressed the radio, music poured into their evening.
Prokofiev purred, his deep resonant, throaty rumble rolled around the room.
He swished and waved his eloquent tail, as if conducting some invisible orchestra.

Diaghilev sashayed and shuffled, surprisingly agile on aged feet,
Stared up at his star pupil, who was executing a challenging and exacting ballet
dance sequence. Tamara twirled, curled and swirled, whilst her neat paws
performed precision pirouettes and petit saut
to the applause and acclamation the little cat richly deserved.

“Enchanting”, “accomplished”, “exciting”, “such style”, “such grace.”
Praise was heaped high, to their bravissimeow cries.
As from dresser to table, to floor, Tamara sprang, posed, and pranced.
Throughout the long dark hours, till the moon sank and set, there was
music and dancing. Feline and refined, the talented
three, celebrate together a symphony in Flat B.
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