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| George MacBeth |
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| Owl | ||||
| Is my favourite. Who flies like nothing through the night, who-whoing. Is a feather duster in leafy corners ring-a-rosy-ing boles of mice. Twice you hear him call. Who is he looking for? You hear him hovering over the floor of the wood. O would you be gold in the driving skull if you could? Hooded and vulnerable by the winter suns owl looks. Is the grain of bark in the dark. Round beaks are at work in the pellety nest, resting. Owl is an eye in the barn. For a hole in the trunk owl’s blood is to blame. Black talons in the petrified fur! Cold walnut hands on the case of the brain! In the reign of the chicken owl comes like a god. Is a goad in the rain to the pink eyes, dripping. For a meal in the day flew, killed, on the moor. Six mouths are the seed of his arc in the season. Torn meat from the sky. Owl lives by the claws of his brain. On the branch in the sever of the hand’s twigs owl in a backward look. Flown wind in the skin. Fine Rain in the bones. Owl breaks Like the day. Am an owl, am an owl. |
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