In the last days, your pink toes curled under
themselves, twisted feet giving you
an old man’s amble and aching bones.
You fell asleep each afternoon in the cave
of my dressing gown pocket. We could see
that you were life-weary: it was expected,
I knew before I found you,

a sunny crescent of fur frozen in sleep,
your fingerprint-sized heart finally stilled.
I cradled your quiet body between my palms,
thumbs stroking your woolly stomach,
my breath making your long whiskers tremble.
I wondered at your soft death.

Your cage became a simple wake
whilst we prepared the chosen plant pot.
Out on a terrace full of grey wind,
trowel in hand, he dug the hole deep
and then returned to the kitchen to slice
pale green triangles of cucumber: a final feast.

I wrapped you in a tissue shroud spun from
your nest, and then we placed you in the ground.
The soil shivered with silver woodlice
and mossy caterpillars as we buried you.
Afterwards, we piled pebbles into a cairn,
dedicating this: the gift of your small bones.