158: A Cat on the Windowsill

I lay on my back on the windowsill,

pillows cushioning my back and head,

legs stretched up against the wall so they make an angle

that is a little more than straight,

as I am reading Mrs Dalloway for the second time

since I bought it three years ago,

and when Peter Walsh falls asleep

on the bench in Regent's Park I crack the spine

and let the paperback rest on my stomach,

open, pages down, and stare out through my window,

northwest, to see wisps of clouds hunt north

and a brilliant forget-me-not sky revealed,

because my windowsill is rather far up and only

when I turn my head do I see the roofs

of university buildings lining Holyrood Road,

blackened with weather come in from the sea,

and magenta pink signs shivering in the wind and it is quite cold, really,

and maybe I should grab my blanket from the end of the bed

but then I would have to get up and, honestly,

the windowsill is rather comfortable,

less than two feet off the floor, a rectangle with a right-angled triangle

poking out of the wall

and enormous windows that give me a view

of a corner of the street if I sit up, and Arthur's Seat behind me, lit

by the chilling September sun of an afternoon grown late

and my stomach rumbles and maybe I can blame

the plastic box of fruit pinned between myself and the window,

or the large-leafed basil in its smug flower pot next to it,

but I had lunch not that long ago — I check the time,

three hours or so ago —

and I doubt the chicken has defrosted yet and anyway, the kitchen

is far too far away,

so I point my toes and stretch my arms and legs, curving my back

as much as the pillows allow,

and if there is a God who watches, I must surely look like a cat

woken up from a drowsy sleep and preparing to roll

onto my side —

but the windowsill is too narrow for that, what with the fruit

and the basil sharing my space,

so I fold my arms behind my head and cross my legs

against the wall and watch a seagull pass across the sky,

speeding south to canals by white marble buildings

and bookshops and little cafés with curiosity shops,

to a summer night and a bed shared with a friend

to keep morning hours at bay.

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Written by: Katrine Hjulstad

Instagram: @katrinehjulstad

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Publisher's note: Please note that all poetry published with Eudaemonia Records has been seen by our editors, and that the editors have suggested revisions where they see fit, but we believe that it is ultimately the writer's decision to accept or reject any suggestions and take no responsibility for which suggestions they accept or reject.