When The Tūi Call & The Cat With Yellow Eyes

Dalas Kruger

When The Tūi Call 

The tūī call at dawn each morning, 

weaving honeyed hymns through the pale light. 

Their song spills over our sleepless joy, 

over hours spent stitching dreams to words—

the sun always seemed to rise too soon. 

By dusk, your bags lined the door. 

You said goodbye like a stranger would— 

a soft, obligatory kindness. 

That night, I lay awake counting heartbeats, 

each one thudding where your voice had been. 

The tūī still call at dawn, relentless. 

Their songs now sound like mourning rites, each note a wound that whistles your name. 

The same light spills, unsoftened by you— 

the sun still rises, but slower somehow.

The Cat With Yellow Eyes 

He only came when the night was soft. 

A shadow with hunger for a heartbeat, 

black fur swallowing the light by the stairwell. 

I kept a bowl waiting, always full. 

He never looked at me when he ate. 

I told myself he was mine— 

that the sound of my voice 

was something he remembered. 

But some nights I’d see him on other balconies, head bent to other hands. 

Still, I opened the door 

when I heard the soft scrape of claws, 

pretending it was affection, not routine. 

He never lingered past the last bite. 

He never stayed to purr. 

You were like that. 

All lean grace and wandering need. 

You came for the warmth, 

for what could fill you, 

and I gave it gladly. 

Now the bowl rusts on the step, 

rain collecting where the milk once was. 

I still leave it out every night, 

just in case he remembers my kindness wasn’t fickle, my love was never rationed.