[This, I made instantly, upon seeing the picture while we were both on holiday. You like it? :) ]
It hooted to its young
Like a song, but screeched rather than sung
They hung on every hoot,
Like they would,
to a red worm from the tree root.
I was sitting underneath,
I heard it from beneath,
And wondered what it might mean,
Until I felt the veil close in,
The stars blinding,
Closing the eye, falling a-dream
When I woke,
I remember, they spoke.
From they very heart of the soul,
With the clarity of the crystal,
The depth of the evergreens.
And I still wondered and wondered...
And now, though them and I are asunder,
I dreamt of how much more it was,
Then the hoot, or shrill screech.
[TheEnigma:D]
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| By RandomChick: On a paint app on her phone: An Owl |
Great post!..the second stanza especially was very well written...
ReplyDeleteI can imagine and share the feelings of the poet ....in my native place, we have our own temple, below a 100 year old tree, on which a few owls stay...even now when I go there, i sleep below that tree during the daytime rest, and see these owls hooting...there is rhythm and poetry in their hooting .....lovely poem ....Dilip Kulkarni
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