The hand that shakes

A butterfly cinquain that doesn’t quite fit the remit for Colleen’s challenge as I have only used a synonym for one of the words.

 

The hand

that shakes the trees

is the wind’s, the voice that

calls in the night and stirs your dreams.

Listen

to its wild song woven with threads

of moon silver and the

gentle questions

of owls.

Anti-social (owl) behaviour

I thought I’d post this anecdote, just passing on information like amateur naturalists do.

When we arrived in this house, the roof beams of the porch were festooned in tin foil strips. Logically, you’d say it was to stop birds nesting there, but since the old folk who had lived here were nature lovers that didn’t seem very likely. Shortly after we moved in something large and angry ripped off  most of the tin foil and chucked it on the ground. Owl we said and thought no more of it.

For the last few mornings we have noticed that the table out on the porch has been awash in a cloudy liquid, as if someone had thrown a bucket of dirty water over it. There has been no rain lately so it wasn’t that. This morning the pool of liquid was like diluted white paint, splashed all over the table and the floor.

I finally realised that the culprit is an owl, possibly the same as the one that sits on the half-open shutters over the bedroom window at night and dumps pellets onto the window frame. Imagine something the size of a cat peeing paint from a great height and you understand why placid, nature-loving Georgette hung tin foil up in the beams to scare the buggers away!

Night owls and cold moon

Kerfe’s owl again.

owl moon s

night is cold

full of stars and owls

hard brilliance

feather softness

bound in streamers of moonlight

 

night is cold

windows run wet

breath steams and streams

while the owl mocks

our shivering

 

owl song trembles

tremolo among the dark trees

warm notes

winged grace quavering

in the chill of starlight

 

moon round and pale

baleful silver

silent as owl-flight

casts a chill eye

for the night is cold

Haibun for a misconception

CelticOwl-2

When an owl hoots, sends out that soft, soothing soulful call bouncing back from sky and trees, falling like feathered leaves, we listen, enchanted to the words we wish we understood, a song in a language older than human speech. Owl magic, we think, soul-searcher, guide to the otherworld. More prosaically, it is actually telling other owls to feck off.

Beauty

is in unconscious being

not contrivance

Harbingers

For the dverse prompt.

 

The owls are silent since the cold began,

No hunting cry that trembles in the wind,

And almost silent too leaf-rustle where

The leaping deer and timid brown hare ran.

 

The owls are silent but their flight I feel

In whispered wind-breath sweeping overhead,

Though flight of fancy common sense would say,

I wonder who of kith or kin is dead.

Owl 14

decsky3

Take a feather

dip it in the wind

paint a frost picture

scrawl across the sky

a wild hoo loo

of hope.

Moon fills and spills

silver

into the black

the sun returns

creeping in at morning

lingering at dusk

until

the feathered flowers

wake.

Owl 13

 

She has an owl on her wrist

holds her head high

listens to the whispered words

of wisdom

and when the men roar

and point the finger

she plucks lighting

from the sky and hurls it

in their livid faces.