Tag Archives: owls

The Evening Falls

The evening falls.
Bird calls
Gradually fade.
The woodland glade
Resounds to the owl’s cry.

I sigh
And read on.
Another day has gone.
And now tis poetry
And me.

(The birds of the day are, to my mind, very different from the owl. As day ends, the night bird resumes his throne, and the birds of the day are silent until the morrow).

Advertisements

The Bird Of Ill Omen

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/.

Keats had his Nightingale

Keats had his Nightingale, which made him think of death.
I have my owl, which brings to mind Macbeth.
Tis a different name
For the same
Thing.

The morning birds sing
Replacing the owl’s cry
And I
Ponder on Keats, who is remembered still
And wonder will
My owl survive
Long after I am alive.

Visitation

I dreamed of poetry yesternight
And awoke to the delight
Of your clear, cold cry.
And I
Was left wondering why
Each visitation you make
Does my complacency shake.

I was not long awake
Yet your cold, clear cry
Will with me stay
Until my dying day.

Too Much Reading

Too much reading
My imagination feeding.
It’s a little after 1 am
When
I hear you hoot,
The night’s flute
So cold and so clear
Instilling a dull fear.

Somewhere a TV or radio burbles on,
Then owl and noise are gone.
I drink in the silence
Then sleep sets me free.

But no
It is not so
For I dream
A dream in early December,
Of what
I don’t remember,
For the individual man
And his dreams are soon forgot.

Did You Hear The Owl?

“Did you hear the owl?” I said, as we sat in my living room.
(It will be over soon.
The prey caught
I thought).

“No” you replied.
Twice more the bird cried
But you heard
Not a word
He said.

The bed
Was hot
And the owl you did not see
Forgot by me.