In a green lane in St Peter’s
near midnight, under a full moon,
a pale owl flew across my path, silently,
then low
over dark fields to the tree-line, hunting.
I turned
to watch his tireless sweep
over dumb ground, mist spreading like a shroud,
till I lost sight of him,
and coldness, creeping,
turned my leaden footsteps home.
In bed, near daybreak,
I jerk awake, heart pounding,
mindful of accelerating time, moments eaten up,
of golden, soundless wings,
that questing eye;
sharp talons reaching for my heart.
Richard Fleming
Image : Pixabay - Comfreak
