Ruaridh the Meeting House cat
Young Ruaridh is a ghost-white cat
Who lives usually upon the Quaker meeting house stair,
High above the bend on Victoria Terrace,
He surveys the views, expecting the shambling Quakers,
As they shuffle in for another meeting.
But it is not a Sunday, so he feels no obligation to attend.
Instead another cause must be using the meeting house,
Strangers to him, and strangers to the house.
These are younger, brightly clothed, hair full shag,
And identifiable to Ruaridh as vegetarian by their scent.
He watches the heart-fired teenagers troop inside,
All out of step, but full of certainty and hormones.
A moment later come bouncing pensioners,
All in black, long silver witch hair hanging loose.
Some are familiar to him, or the other way around,
So he leaps from his perch atop tenuous Victorian tiles,
Down around a window ledge, then down another,
Then, tail wrapped round as counterweight,
He descends the final corniced pillar.
He follows the last heel through the door,
Beginning to twine around recognisable ankles.
“Careful Ruaridh!” One old lady says,
As he tangles with the folds of her long black cloak.
“I’m sure there will be a treat for you if you just sit bonny,
Let us get through the meeting.”
He pauses for a moment, then follows them up the stairs,
The meeting room is large,
Some of the younger visitors comment on the view,
“All the way to Pentlands, snow still in April.”
The view from the roof is much better, Ruaridh knows,
The only disturbance being pigeons,
And they usually only once, if his pounce is accurate.
All round the room the chairs and pews are out of order,
Signs with slogans lean against each other
And there is talking with uncharacteristic vigour.
Some shout, others talk over each other,
Some of the young, merely gaze at each other,
Barely conscious of the hubbub, noticing only,
The ways a tie-dye waistcoat sits, or a patchwork skirt.
Ruaridh pays little attention to the
roof is much better, Ruaridh knows,
The only disturbance being pigeons,
And they usually only once, if his pounce is accurate.
All round the room the chairs and pews are out of order,
Signs with slogans lean against each other
And there is talking with uncharacteristic vigour.
Some shout, others talk over each other,
Some of the young, merely gaze at each other,
Barely conscious of the hubbub, noticing only,
The ways a tie-dye waistcoat sits, or a patchwork skirt.
Ruaridh pays little attention to the human affairs,
Investigating handbag and rucksack,
Until he finds one worth bothering the owner of.
She spotting his desperate air, reaches in for treasured nibbles.
Before searching out, and pawing at the next bag, and the next.
Belly full, he jumps to the sunny windowsill,
Checks back to the ongoing discussion,
Then outside, to count the starlings,
And falls contentedly to sleep.
GB 8th March, 2026
Rare crossover between #Quaker and #cat.