At about 8:30 pm, on Sunday 9 September, I was strolling through All Saints churchyard (https://newauthoronline.com/2018/09/09/graves-and-poems/). As I passed through the graveyard, I heard a voice loud and clear. It was that of an owl, although I was unable to determine whether he was in the churchyard or somewhere close by.
We humans have a great capacity for attributing to living creatures (other than man) significance. On seeing a black cat we think of witches, of bad luck and the horned god himself. Likewise, on hearing the owl, as dusk was falling on an evening in early Autumn, I thought on Macbeth and death. As I did so, my poem “Owl” came to mind, https://newauthoronline.com/2017/01/28/k-morris-reading-his-poem-owl-2/.
Gravestones I can not see
Look back at me.
Tomb rhymes with womb,
Or is it the other way around?
Both death and sex are profound
We go out of our way
To Avoid speaking of the final sleep.
Stories of sex do our need
For entertainment feed.
We are “shocked”
By a footballer’s disgrace,
Although the smile on our face
Mocks the “shocked”.
The papers care
About morality and titillate
Their readers over their breakfast plate
With stories of how a paedophile was caught
And brought to court
By vigilantes who perhaps encourage the week to do
What they might not otherwise do
By pretending to be an underage kid.
No matter for we are rid
Of another “monster” from our midst.
The gravestones continue to stare,
While the populace care
About the celebrity’s whore.
Perhaps it is a fear of what the grave has in store
That causes the tabloid readers
(Those bottom feeders)
Articles about how the underclass do breed
And gaze at half-naked celebrities capers
In what some call “newspapers”.
Walking through the churchyard, I saw a shape.
There can be no escape
From the tomb.
For those who care
To look beyond a sunny day.
continuing on my way
I passed that tree,
That did loom