The moonlit field is haunted by the brush
of hunting shadow wings. The field mouse stops --
her heart a frantic rythym in the hush
of grassy murmur, field brook rush, the plop
of water on the rocks -- as wings dip once
then down the sound of owl descending, loud
to ears now straining for the sound of pounce!
that predatory whoosh! that final shout.
Does field-mouse shudder, thick with fear, her bones
astutter as she hears her death descend
from high above? Does owl, the hunter, groan
aloud, anticipating hunger's end?
Or does the field mouse see an angel loom
with love? And owl, a sin he must assume?
POEMS
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MORE OF SB's POEMS
@WATERMARK |A Poet's Notebook
- Disclaimer
Please do not assume that I am the speaker/ subject of my poems.
In these times of creative nonfiction and fictionalized memoirs, I think of the poem itself as true fiction: it is most likely not factual, but it must be true.
It is likely to be -- it is best if it is -- a truth I did not know before I wrote, and may not understand even then.
A poem is my way of discovering (dis-covering) what I feel; sometimes, what I think -- but it is not necessarily biographical.
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