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
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?” 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.
Sometimes I attempt to shout down the birds
And choose
To lose
Myself in words.
But as a dart
Ere long
Their song
Pierces my heart.
On occasions I try
To escape the owl’s cry
And pretend
There is no end
To meet
And sheet.
But as night falls,
He calls to me.
There was a young lady called Gay
Who composed limericks throughout the day.
She read them aloud at night,
Which was much to the delight
Of the owl who lived down her way.
I have lain awake listening for the owl’s cry.
A note that chills
Thrills
Then does die.
One day
This bird of prey
Will carry my soul away,
Or so the supersticious say.
Mice hide
While I, in my pride
Decide
The owl’s erie cry
Signifies that I will die.
The bird has no interest in me
So why can I not be free
From his cry
That to my window nigh
does rise, then, as suddenly, die?
You visit in the early morn.
Your note chill
Sends a thrill
Through man and mouse.
The house
Is quiet.
Only your cry forlorn
Does warn.
Disquiet
Carrying from the Lawns.
A mere bird
Yet your voice heard
Down the long years
Inspires fears
And seers
Grey
Fortell a dismal day.
—
The Lawns is an historic park situated close to my home in Upper Norwood, (http://www.londongardensonline.org.uk/gardens-online-record.asp?ID=CRO040).-
Waking from a strange dream
I hear the fatal bellman toll.
‘Tis Macbeth’s owl
Signifying death.
A warm bed
On a dark October morn.
My fancy
And the cold note of an owl hunting.
The wise old owl scowled,
At the lone grey wolf who howled,
As she prowled,
Intent on deeds most foul,
Under the rising moon.
Said the owl, “Must you howl,
In a manner quite so foul?
You cause my head to ache,
Go and jump in yonder lake.
Said the wolf, “Make no mistake,
It is getting late,
The lake is freezing cold,
And I am not so bold”.
Outside my darkening window you glide. You call, fall, and something once living dies.
K Morris - Poet 