The Panther

A panther came into my dreams last night,
Prancing its fineness before me.
It padded slowly around the coffee table,
Turned its cold eyes on me, and posed like pharaoh’s cat.
Soft and still, it sat staring at me -
I stared back.

A panther came into my dreams last night,
Touching my world with its strangeness.
Gracefully glossy, it paraded its difference before me,
Sniffed at my leg and the chair with equal interest.
Quietly indifferent, it sat and groomed itself -
And ignored me.

A panther came into my dreams last night,
Bringing the green jungle with it.
The damp air of deepest shadow chilled the room
Suspending me in frozen animation.
The panther stretched and yawned a wide, pink yawn -
And warmed me.



Rousseau's painting






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Trellis offered me Rousseau's Panther to guard my dreams.



One of my readers said --

Upon reading, at least today, your story 'She dreams in the dunes', and your poem, 'The Panther', they struck a chord with me, in their wording, and the images they portrayed as I read.

They both seemed to belong within a dream, the kind of thing not thought of, but allowed to run at the back of your mind as the day progresses, remembering dimly and enjoying over time.

Brian



© 1997 G.B.Savage

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