Deeper into velvet night

Much is hidden beneath the velvet cloak of night. The dark manifestations as earth spins away from the sun and the quiet truths to which many close their eyes. But what of the dark? When all we regard with our daytime gaze becomes unfamiliar and strange, shrouded in a cloak of deepest hues, lit only by the celestial beings of the night. Those old friends and foe.

I lift my head skywards. High above the old church tower, Orion takes his place. A constant nighttime companion through the turning of the calendar, retreating only when hidden beneath tumbling clouds, invisible to the night, but never parting the indigo blanket of the cosmos. He aims his arrow to the heavens, his dagger’s tip secured at his belt, points towards me, below. Such a dagger, if it were mine, where would I take it under cover of darkest night? From my place on the wooden bench at the edge of the churchyard, I ponder its use. There would be a list of some length if I were to transcribe all their names.

Here, in the stillness, there is space for my thoughts to unfurl. My wonderings and suppositions are boundless, uninhibited now that the noise and distractions of the day have been packed away to bed. How can any mind breathe or have depth of thought when surrounded by a cacophony of sound at every moment? The drone of voices, screech of machines, even the barking hound at the end of the street becomes a daily irritation. Another use for the dagger is added to my list.

You may wonder if my musings and the idea of perhaps maiming the dog from our neighbourhood are fantasy. It is true, for me to harm a dog would be difficult. Though some have felt the fate of my nature, sudden and sharp, as a result of my instinctive thought and action. It is not for me to burden you with such detail here, but my list, as well as fantastical, is also borne out in fact.

I leave the dampness of the bench and meander the paths of the churchyard that twist and turn amidst the headstones, tied and bound by thorns and brambles. There is no escape for them as they stand resolute against the darkness. But why would they wish to flee? There is nothing for them to fear here. I may be many things, but those who lie beneath the sod are quite safe.

I question the blackness that surrounds me. Is it the dark, the simple absence of light that many fear, or is it the unknown, lying hidden and concealed within its shadowy depths? When does a joyful stream become a more menacing torrent, a woodland glade become a sinister, arboreous trap? As dusk edges away and the sun pours itself over the hills to the west, what is the dark, created in the deepest recesses of the mind’s eye, lurking in those unseen corners? If I am to stride purposefully out of the churchyard and into the lane that leads to the woods, should my nature alter because the sun is slumbering? The ground beneath my feet remains the same as in daylight hours. The iron fence along the path is still solid and firm. Air continues to fill my lungs. I do not fear what I cannot see. Under the sun’s rays I would not spend a moment contemplating what may, or may not be there. But I remain astute. I am no fool.

The life I’ve led has given me cause to be swift in my thoughts and on my feet. I sense where danger waits and know the ways to avoid it. I take what the world offers me. Sometimes the weak or vulnerable. Sometimes, an exchange of force is unavoidable. At other times I bask in the lap of luxury. I do not always deserve such delights but for those who care for me and cherish me, my transgressions go unpunished - or perhaps they are not noticed. Whether this is ignorance or affection on their behalf, I do not question. For one such as I to receive such attention and pleasure is indeed a paradox that even I do not fully comprehend.

It seems to me that I am, but at times a ghost. Unseen and unheard, I move quietly and skilfully, my presence felt but never seen. In this blackest of night, I sense there may be others near. Unobserved but felt, as I tread along the path to the woods. Perhaps, away from the daytime's constantly turning, deafening kaleidoscope, they too enjoy the silence of these darkest hours, when the clock ticks silently and sand pours slowly through the glass.

Above, the waxing moon casts silver shadows onto the woodland floor. The trees whisper amongst themselves, warning that I am near. There is little need. I have no intention of brutality this night. I have slept and eaten well today and my spirit is curious. It is in these moments of darkest, most contented solitude that I consider my purpose and the riddle of my existence. How strange it is to be so fiercely coveted and adored, despite what I have done. Those unspeakable things. I, who shrinks into the covers of darkness.

Only the slightest breeze murmurs as I emerge from the woods and take the path towards my home in the village. The sky is clear and tiny bright stars and constellations prick holes in the night’s canopy. I heard once that over two centuries ago, a notable astronomer identified a new arrangement of stars symbolising a cat. Alas, Felis, as it was known, was never officially recognised. But what should that matter to me? Allow me to explain…

I am Cat.

Vain, astute, killer.

Mauler of mice, breaker of birds, curled at your hearth.

Midnight's silence and deeper into velvet night,

thickened darkness blankets my movements

as hidden assassin I travel

through shrub, street, garden, copse,

padded foot conceals sharpened claw,

splendid slender stillness poised into flight.

By fireside and homeward motion

not all do think such curious thought

a tyrant of such deep devotion,

whilst others dream - I do not.