The birds fly left and then back right,
Catfiáin is mesmerised.
He crouches low and hides his legs,
peering just above the ledge.
His instincts keep his focus keen,
he's ready for some winged cuisine.
Though still and silent he must fail;
elation waves his wilful tail.
And anyway, against the grass
his dusty white's no camouflage.
The birds see him, he's in denial,
he's held in place by something primal.
He's watching and I'm watching too,
I'm fixed on every tiny move.
I, and Catfiáin, my cat,
'tis a like task we are at.
(One of my favourite poems is this translation of Pangur Bán, (original Old Irish text here) scribbled by an unidentified scribing monk at the side of his manuscript, around the 9th century. It is one of Early Ireland's most famous pieces of writing, written in or near Reicheneau Abbey in Germany. When my daughters got their kitten in October last year I wanted to call him Pangur Bán, but my daughters insisted he wasn't white enough to merit that name. They settled on Catfiáin, which means wildcat. I was pleasantly surprised with their choice as Catfiáin easily subsititutes for Pangur Bán in the above-linked translation by Robin Flower).
