Cleo

Twelve years have spun their yarn, from tiny, trembling start,

A ten-week soul, the only one, with a shattered heart.

Found in a box of sorrow, a darkness she survived,

A scar upon her emerald eye, where shadows once contrived.

The world of hands reaches out, with a touch they think is kind,

But Cleo holds her counsel close, a guarded, wary mind.

"Would you pet a child unasked?" your gentle question rings,

"They have a voice, a choice to make," the thoughtful wisdom brings.

Through winding roads and valleys deep, where Snowdon's peaks arise,

My old van carried precious cargo beneath the vast Welsh skies.

And there, upon the seats edge, with regal air she'd sit,

Two furry paws upon the dash, observing all of it.

A furry, four-legged sentinel, a captivating sight,

Bringing smiles to passing faces, bathed in the mountain light.

By Snowdon's ancient, misty slopes, where rivers gently gleam,

We paused beside the cooling flow, a tranquil, sun-kissed dream.

Though clouds hung low, the air was warm, a comfort soft and deep,

And Cleo, with a curious paw, explored the sandy keep.

She paddled in the crystal stream, a feeling new and grand,

The earth beneath her delicate toes, upon that Welsh rocky sand.

No sweet "here kitty, kitty" lure will ever make her stride,

She reigns upon her own wild whim, with glorious feline pride.

A tripping tumble now and then, a swat with playful might,

My independent, spirited Cleo, a terror and a light.