I dreamed of a grey cat, who walks like a blueing mist, curling her tail around her favourites and brush-sabre rattling it at those she despises. She slinks by the edges of life and purrs at purrable things. She is fiercely honest, and embraces mystery with every silent padding pawstep. She knows when to sharpen her claws, and when to velvet them away. I have not looked her in the eyes yet, but I am sure they are round topaz wetness, liquid stone in the fog of fur, streaked with streams of moss, and that a sliver of onyx holds the centre in pupilled darkness.
She sleeps in sunbeams when they are slow enough to catch her, and curls up in shadow, happy in light and dark, seeing clear by either. She always goes around and never through, shedding softness in a stormy carpet behind her for us to follow if we wish to, a cloud of fibrous unknowing. She does not come when called, and in any case, there is no name diaphanous enough to wrap itself around her.
I have only glimpsed the back of her, as she passes the cleft of my rocky hiding place, but as I died in my dream, I knew with all my heart I wished I had got to know her better.
text © K Dibbens-Wyatt Photo from Pixabay
Through a glass darkly, a smoky quartz seeing, our lives disjointed by the refraction of not holding the lens of eternity. Our sight fogged still, when the elves depart to the west, and the boats wait for us in the cobbled harbour, the mists rolling in from the grey havens. Ships with sails made of gossamer, sparkled with dew in the twilight, twixt dog and wolf, the time to embrace and own our uncertainty, walking by the moorings in the cloud of unknowing.
It is only when we set sail, that we shall begin to see, and all the steel scaffolding we thought held up the truth will fall away, scattering lines, and letting the truth fall clanking like stars. Yes, then we shall see, and all shall turn to silver glass, ice sharp wonder and clarity beyond all our wildest imaginings, even the grass, as his dear fellow inkling guessed, too sharp to set foot on until we have realised where we truly are.
Text © Keren Dibbens-Wyatt Composite art by R R Wyatt © used with permission.
Grey can seem to some like a boring colour. We say a day is grey when it is overcast and the weather feels heavy and dull. But for me, it is the colour of storms, of change coming, and of the soft, velvet fur of a Persian cat. Rumbling of thunder, thunderous purring, rolling clouds, undulating feline fluffball. Both hold potential, of rain and affection, both might give instead, a fearsome show of growls accompanied by static electricity.
text and photo © Keren Dibbens-Wyatt 2017