Do you think I don’t know how you watch me through your window, breathlessly holding your binoculars to your eyes? I know I’m only a distraction; titillation for you as I bathe; raise my children; make them. But tell me, voyeur, do you even know my name without looking me up in your contemptible little book; and if you do, do you use it as you boast of me to your friends? Do you even remember my colour, my size?
You assure everyone that you feed me on the finest money can buy; provide me with the most comfortable of homes. Yet what passes your understanding is that my own food was finer before you poisoned and pulled the flowers from your tidy, disinfected garden; my home was safest hidden in the hedgerow you uprooted for your larch-lap fence. My bathing, watcher, was fresher and oh so much more sensuous in the stream you culverted beneath your greenhouse on top of which your predatory tom sits in lounging readiness like its owner, as I queue behind the finches and siskin.
Did he make you a present of my husband, as he did my cousin? I bet he sat as self-satisfied as you do, licking his paws with congratulatory fervour to remove the stains of his character.
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