Orphan in the rain

She was born under a log

with the sour smell of a passing cobra

still smeared on the bark.

Rain elbowed round the curve of the wood

and dripped onto her, its inexorable beat

part of the harsh rhythm of being born.

            She knew Hunger from the start.

Every nerve and new-born fibre of her body

strained for the cold, hard teat

lost in her mother’s soaking pelt.

And when milk came

it warmed the lining of her stomach

but could not fill it.

            She knew Cold.  Her fur could not dry,

nor her mother’s desperate tongue

keep pace with the constant rain.

            Her little paws, plunged into steaming coat,

pummelled warmth from a gaunt flank,

and her tiny nose, pressed against thin skin

long after the milk was finished,

breathed warmth into chilled lungs.

But mist seeped into every pore.

The sodden earth was ice against each movement.

            She knew Fear.  Not at first

when the need for milk was all there was

to her blind, deaf world,

but soon, and always.

            Fear paralysed her when her mother left;

it clenched her, huddled until she returned.

Fear curled her up like a dry leaf

as her mother carried her from place to place.

Everything that moved threatened her life.

Every stir of wind breathed fear – beware!

Life was Fear.  Death was Fear.

Every step of cautious paw, each flick of ear

tested Fear against need.

Hunger, Cold, Fear, dulled, sharpened, dulled,

in accepted waves until one day

Hunger gained a place above the rest;

ached and twisted in her fleshless bones,

hour upon lonely hour, day upon night,

drawing her out at last to seek her mother.

            Rain hammered her into the ground,

smashed all scent and sight and sound,

drowned her thinning wails,

drummed up death.

            Suddenly Fear reared up, Fear grown to Terror,

as two great hands from some immense being

tall as trees, cupped her round,

and lifted her against a mighty heart.

            All her wild heritage sprang to her aid.

Leopard, serval, caracal,

shook ancestral fury through her frame.

She spread her frail claws,

slammed them into furless flesh,

hooked there, rigid, while she screamed

and swore and bit with baby teeth and spat

to no avail.

            Came a long journey cradled in those hands

so warm and firm that Fear almost fell asleep...

A rough towel licked her dry.

She fought and squalled.

The hard edge of a spoon touched her teeth.

She spat and bit.

Warm milk flowed, and forgetting all else

she grasped the spoon – more, more –

sneeze and hiccup and burp until,

warm and dry and full

for the first time in her life,

her spinning mind tumbled into sleep.  

Hunger and Cold stayed outside the door

but Fear came in.

For days she hid behind furniture

spurning the woollen nest made up for her,

finding, anyway, warm lesser beds

in all her hiding places; creeping out only when alone,

her sleep snatched awake by every sound.

Twice she called her mother, a thin sound,

that drifted without direction in this strange world.

            For days she fought the hands that gently

reached for her, that fed and warmed and kissed her

because Fear said she must.

            One day she fell asleep between those hands.

One day she tapped a fingertip in play.

One day she purred.

Today the house and garden are her kingdom,

she the tiny queen, with love her throne.

Every thing that moves is pounced upon –

leaves, people, dogs’ tails –

plunder for her paws.

Every thing that doesn’t move is also pounced upon,

since not to move is dull.

            Cold and Hunger may not come again

but Fear will always walk not far behind,

keeping her body lithe, senses alert,

her nerves flash-quick.

She teases Fear.  She mocks it,

imitates its staring eyes and slashing claws,

makes it join in many of her games –

Leopard Hunting Prey, perhaps,

or Lynx Defending Den.

Full well she knows that should Fear come too close

loving hands will make a fortress round her,

hands and heart a trusted fortress round her,

soft and warm as her contented purr.

*****

The photographs are of Siberia - The Tiger who Came in from the Cold - who was just such a bedraggled and savage orphan, grown to be an extraordinary companion. - DW