(in honour of George Orwell)
They are heard in alleyways.
Tired, hoarse, and kicked in the teeth.
The kittens, long forgotten,
knackered, but made of stern stuff.
They are given gifts, afterthoughts.
Spilled milk, the browbeaten aid.
Milk that cannot satiate
as it fails to quench their cries.
They are told to keep working
by plural societies.
Single kittens on treadmills,
swindled, told to stop scrounging.
They have lost faith in themselves.
In candled corners, dreams start.
Dreams centred on growing up.
They deserve to become cats.
--
Stephen Paul Wren