Barnes’ Owl in the Snow

(rhymes written after reading Simon Barnes’ blog post Barn owl in the snow)

Across the marsh, white passing over white 
the silent hunter flies then loses height  
descending to a favoured perch to stand 
and view with icy gaze an icy land 
Stray snowflakes catch my fancy, frivolous 
but never his; his hunt is serious. 

Across the marsh, white passing over white 
Outside the stables, freezing at the sight 
I let my busy, muck-filled spade fall still  
A thought occurs that gives a further thrill: 
this, and the pellet found the other day 
suggest the owls have come back here to stay! 

Across the marsh, white passing over white 
Fight on! Though cold Spring breeding left its blight 
The pellet, when with tweezers prised in two 
revealed the fine-boned relics of a shrew 
strange artefacts of Lilliputian size 
a fascinating wonder for young eyes. 

Across the marsh, white passing over white 
he signifies to me a world put right 
Will future generations ever know 
that world? To them, and our own souls we owe 
our best attempt to turn the tide around 
so nights then still awe-shiver at his sound. 

Across the marsh, white passing over white 
A treasured moment; may a poet write  
some verses that will eloquently share 
this plea and make the world more keenly care 
and feel, if all is lost, how dear the price. 
For now, the humble lines here must suffice. 

On Odes to Coastal Dawns – spoken word video

What poet now would ever dare
To sing an ode to morning air
The rosy mist that hovers there
O’er sea-girt folds?

What mind could ever fully grasp
The magnitude of such a task:
To frame in verses built to last
Vapours of gold?

Perhaps some master’s careful brush
Could set in oil the heart’s full rush
Paint here and there a windswept bush
With well-mixed hue

But how could we with words sing praise
And capture this ambrosial haze
To place on page for later days
This heavenly view?

Now most assume in ancient time
Some poet placed a fatted chine
Upon Aurora’s hillside shrine
None now could equal

And so the theme of their refrain
Will tend to be one more mundane
For who among them still would deign 
To pen a sequel?

But poets! To her shrine turn back
Tread rhyming steps along that track
And do not worry if you lack
A perfect gift

For when we see the rosy glow
We will be comforted to know
We’re not the first to see the show
As sea mists lift.