In the dead of night
Beyond the curtain drawn,
Silence gripped the forest like ice.
The Moon spilt light,
Like frost, dusting branch and bough,
Whose trunks stood rigored in mortis,
Berefet of light
Until the dawn would coax
Them back to life,
In the warm embrace of day.
And in the tree outside my window
An Owl sat watching the Moon.
The Moon saw all but understood little,
Whilst the Owl understood all,
But now saw little.
Eventually, it spread its wings
And went in search, again
Of absent mistress,
Its sacred knowledge
Falling to earth,
Like feathers
In the gestating thoughts of my dreams.

© Greg Richards

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s