11 DECEMBER 1993, Page 43

Little Drama

A bonny night. I step outside and gaze, head back in autumn dark, up into space, where stars between the clouds burn with quiet praise, and think for whatever reason of your face.

Fine thoughts below those glittering Pleiades. Regrets. Goodbyes. The largeness of the night summons easy nostalgias for futilities, free from the searching glare of window light.

But what's this, suddenly, about my feet, rubbing at my ankles? It's the old, fat black torn unusually affectionate, startling from revery, ragged-eared, with his small thunder.

Is it mere food or love he wants, I wonder?

His presence somehow makes the night complete.

Gerry Cambridge