Poetry 1


Hunting Owl

hunting owl

He lives by vole power
this short-eared, round-eyed owl.
Hunting by day and dusk,
two thousand voles per season
some say are his requirements
and I have watched him quarter every field,
on silk-angora wings,
searching for his life- blood.

Today he`s in the wheat field
that bakes in sun and rain,
matches his biscuit colour.
In search of food he haunts the lying beds.
Knowing he is there I see through camouflage
eyes that show the soul;
yellow peril;
centres of two mandalas;
He screws his head right round,
{or so it seems}
seeking ultimate vision.

He uses man`s initiative
to further his own needs.
The harvester carries on –
cutting cutting, cutting,
flushing out at drill ends
the gentle dew-eyed vole.

He`s there
strange, beautiful and cruel,
scimitar beak and tearing talons ready…

He pounces –
does not pause for grace.

Lark Singing in a Storm


Hard to sing a love song in a storm
When snow-cold gales blow over white Craigowl,
Last week was pleasant sundrift , bright and warm
But now the sting sleet-rain pelts on the soul
Yet far above me in the lift and throbbing high
A lark sings from a waste of murky sky.

His nest drowned out, his eggs all washed and cold
He knows the pattern, he will start again
And uncomplaining will re-make the mould
Oblivious to anguished loss or pain
Though mate still shivering on the splashy ground
His hopeful song is yet a happy sound…

These water-fields will have to be re-sown
The grain that is in-chitted now will rot
An instant loch – as small waves rise I groan
Yet sing within at austere beauty caught
And here I face the paradox again
The tug between deep happiness and pain.

Perhaps then it is not at all unique
That when disaster strikes still bliss can rise
The weather in the heart and head is freak
Nests drown, crops rot, too early blossom dies
But if the copious heart is filled with spring
In spite of hardship some can always sing.

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