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.
that shakes the trees
is the wind’s, the voice that
calls in the night and stirs your dreams.
to its wild song woven with threads
of moon silver and the
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!
Kerfe’s owl again.
night is cold
full of stars and owls
bound in streamers of moonlight
night is cold
windows run wet
breath steams and streams
while the owl mocks
owl song trembles
tremolo among the dark trees
winged grace quavering
in the chill of starlight
moon round and pale
silent as owl-flight
casts a chill eye
for the night is cold
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.
is in unconscious being
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.
Tonight the grass beneath
My feet has no cold teeth,
No frost with white-furred sheath casts pale light.
Clouds obscure the night sky,
In the dark no stars die,
Falling shards, no owls cry, dark as shrouds.
Moon mist fills the night sky
A milky sea while I
Search the grass with keen eye for warm mouse.
Feel the night breeze drift,
Ruffle feathers, water, sift
The sand in ripples, lift the bright stars.
She has an owl on her wrist
holds her head high
listens to the whispered words
and when the men roar
and point the finger
she plucks lighting
from the sky and hurls it
in their livid faces.