Cinnamon Cat and other poetry

Newstead Abbey Gardens:  Changes  In Newstead’s Abbey’s heart, where hills embrace,  A garden blooms with whispered grace,  Where nature twines with history’s thread     echoes of monks’ Gregorian chants, once said.  Among these paths, where stillness reigns,  A remnant of the past remains,  Herbal beds in ordered rows, Always nurtured where devotion rose  among the monks, in solemn, cloistered peace,  Who sought in nature's touch a sweet release.  Like rosaries, each leaf a prayer, each stem a hymn  A melody of faith that grew dim.  The yews and oaks with gnarled might  Stood strong through Henry VIII’s ruthless fight A mirror of Newstead Abbey's soul, now dismayed.  The young poet lets the gardens grow untamed,  There, where monks once walked with spirits claimed,  Ivy crept with nature’s memory thread,  Binding present, past, the living and the dead.  The lakes, where wat...

The Criminality of Phoebos, the Cinnamon Cat.   He’s the great cinnamon cat, sleek and spry,  Like a Mafia prince with mischief in his eye.  He prowls through the streets, all scatter in fear,  Murdering pigeons, if they dare to come near.  He steals from the neighbours, his paws swift and sly,  Stalking the alleys as night's drawing nigh   But when the cops come knocking, with evidence flat,  His mum just smiles,  “You silly boy, my cinnamon cat would never do that!”   He patrols his turf like a boss on the prowl,  Chasing intruders with a menacing scowl.  He’s been seen in the alley, claws flashing in rage,  Waging fierce battles like a rogue on the stage.  No cat is safe from his wrath in the night,  He fights for his kingdom, fierce in the fight.  But when the cops come knocking, claiming another spat,  His mum just laughs,  “You silly boy, my cinnamon cat would never do that!”  ...

Phoebos, the Cinnamon Cat  Phoebos, the Cat, named after Apollos’ light  Ha! He’s more like an impish spright.  A fluffy cinnamon ball with sass to spare,  A rascal in fur, with a devilish glare.   Like a baby he’s heard wailing, "Let me out!"  You'd think the world’s ending, without a doubt.  Through the door he escapes, with a sly little grin,  The magpies squawk, "Beware, he's out, it's him!"  They warn the woods of his prowling gait,  For Phoebos the Terrible's out of the gate.  Will he bring back a pigeon, or maybe a rat?  Whatever it is, he's smug about that.  He creeps through the trees, a hunter supreme, t houghts of food fuels his life-dream.  But when his human offers him a tasty bite,  Phoebos just smirks; who knows, he may fight.  A swipe with the paw or a claw-filled attack,  The human never knows if Phoebos will snack or smack!  He purrs with delight, then strikes with glee,...