Oh bother - failed posting. Will try again as you would like to see it:
The Cats’ Revenge
The cats of Queen Beruthiel
Surge homeward through the night,
Soft-flowing as Mitheithel
In gorges hid from light.
Silent they pad, each head held low,
Their glowing eyes of beryl
Deep-filled with hatred burning slow
That spells the cruel Queen’s peril.
From feline mind to mind thoughts fly
Of scratches deeply bleeding
Of white teeth rending, royal cries
For mercy – all unheeding.
The black tide sweeps into the hall
Where stands the exile’s throne.
Each struggles to resist her call
But, bound to her alone
They cower at her cruel feet,
Who through the lengthening years
Has tortured them with cold and heat
And laughed at all their tears.
Tonight, tonight, each longs in thought
Why should we not – but see!
Her probing mind cuts longing short
And by her magic she
Drags from within each prisoned soul
The secrets they have seen,
Then waves a careless finger, “Go!
There’s naught here for a Queen!”
Beside her sits Elaan the White,
With glittering amber eyes
Absorbing her companions’ plight
And pitying their cries.
Across the jet-dark marble floor
She follows, skittering down
The dingy backstairs paw by paw
To find them gathered round
Their scanty bowls of broken meats
And water fouled with grease;
She leaps into a kitchen seat,
And hisses “Let this cease!
The wicked Queen enthrals us all
And we are far from home
Dragged unresisting by her call
Across the sea’s pearled foam.
Tis she has made us enemies,
My black and comely friends!
Unite with me, and so with ease
We’ll tempt her to her end!”
Eighteen green flashes in the dark
Are turned upon her now;
She blinks at them, an amber spark,
And hears them growl “How?”
Leaping among them, Elaan seems
A pearl in velvet set.
Old grievances die quick as dreams –
They’ll have their vengeance yet!
Heads push together, purrs arise,
As cunning plans are formed,
And deep behind the jewel eyes
The Witch-Queen’s end is born.
Next morning when the sun shines bright
Upon the exile’s hall
The captive cats of darkest night,
They come not to her call.
“Brute beasts!” she howls, and hastens down
The sweeping marble stairs,
Where midway, as the curve swings round,
The plotters have their lairs.
Seven, eight, nine, ten – the cats spring up
And claw her flowing gown;
She tumbles. rolling, bouncing – thump!
Slowly they all slink down.
A caterwaul of feline joy
Echoes about the walls;
The Queen lies like a broken toy
And silence slowly falls.
The shining eyes glance to and fro,
Deep with new living hope
“It’s over, over, now we go!”
They vanish then – like smoke.
)
