Their breath was clean, or harsh and sour <br />according to her moods: <br />and when they sensed a coming storm <br />they crept into corners. <br />Today she is a remote eminence, <br />tall and cold as Alaska: <br />but the cats understood her <br />as something young and brittle <br />like bamboo <br />that cuts you when it breaks. <br />When she died, apart from them <br />they felt her passing over <br />as a seismic change of frequency: <br />they never quite forgot her <br />and when something reminded them <br />they purred, nervously. <br /> <br />No one writes their biography.<br /><br />Richard George<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/sylvia-plath-s-cats/
