Budge

Budge

In the quiet of the morning,
the cat lies stretched upon the rug,
a soft, unyielding mound of fur—
she will not budge, she will not tug.

The clock ticks on, the tea grows cold,
the world outside begins to stir,
yet she remains a steadfast stone,
refusing to be moved or blurred.

A nudge of hand, a gentle call,
a whisper, “Come, let’s stretch and play,”
but still she holds her feline pose,
immovable in her own sway.

So I sit beside her, patient, still,
learning from her quiet grace—
sometimes the bravest thing to do
is simply to stay in place.

And when at last she rises, slow,
stretching limbs towards the sun’s soft gleam,
I realise that to budge or not
is but a choice, a quiet dream.