5am and I almost forgot the owl

I have been deliberately saving the bats for the other end of the day, but owl was almost overlooked because I don't see it as often. Once (stuck in traffic on the way to the Royal Cornwall Show) we saw an owl hunting in broad daylight. It had a grumpy look to it and we amused ourselves by inventing back stories for it.

201

A composition of washing hangs

On the spare room airer, plastic rungs

Provide a structure for the slung

Socks and baby t-shirts

202

Over the landing banister

The blue striped duvet cover dries

It went camping, the wet dog had

Left a print of herself on it

203

In the wash-basket, a crumpled

History of last week in dank cotton

Fast-wicking technical fibres and

Odours of sweat, mud, seaweed

204

Surfboards lean in the shed

Crunches of sand pressed into wax

One board-bag zip jammed open, the

Aluminium corroded by salt

205.

The sky is dark until the earth rolls

It still feels like the sun comes to us

Looks for us over the horizon, brings us light

To break the fastness of sleep

206

Morning dilutes night, so birds

Busy in trees, on wires, risking

Ground ventures, can consume in sips

Boosts of brightness

207

The ground surface is wet, is a

Crumpled, flannelled face both

Weary and fresh awake, is a

Fumbling kettle-in-hand body

208

Owl’s last glide, claws extended

Under opal leg-feathers, the gleaming

Wingspan beats once from catch to

Flight, the gold eyes do not blink

209

Dream phases haul up from

Deeper levels, not without

Friction or fight, follow the

Analogy of hooked fish

210

Sheep watch the owl’s swoop

And flight from this grass shore

To the next island in the sea

Of mist and morning calm

Comments

Contact Pants Conundrum

There is weather today, I do note it: take a few moments to reckon the size of a cloud (big) and the frequency of rain (sporadic.) Centre of my interest though is a stack of magazines. Not the fashion kind. This is martial arts research. I'm not even sure what it is I'm looking for, but intuition calls loud. A range of old adverts skew some amusement. Contact pants, for example. Pants are not trousers where I come from. They are underwear. Professional contact pants: improved smirk value. But why would a person be likely to purchase a grappling hook and a lock pick set? For specialists and hobbyists only, the blurb assures. Guidance on the pheromone spray that attracts women against their better judgement? I doubt it works any more proficiently than the mysterious potion that defines your muscles while you sleep. But, then: I wonder is some sprayed on this paper? What was my intuition thinking, making this ghastly shout… Tea break time. There's a lot of words...

Back From The Future Blog Party

Another joint blog adventure- if you want to see who else said what the list of participants is here . The premise is this: 'You're up before dawn on a Saturday when the doorbell rings. You haven't brewed your coffee so you wonder if you imagined the sound. Plonking the half-filled carafe in the sink, you go to the front door and cautiously swing it open. No one there. As you cast your eyes to the ground, you see a parcel addressed to you ... from you. You scoop it up and haul it inside, sensing something legitimate despite the extreme oddness of the situation. Carefully, you pry it open. Inside is a shoebox -- sent from ten years in the future -- and it's filled with items you have sent yourself. What's in it?' Here's how I imagined it: Before dawn? Shadows outside, first forming. Sleep has gone, I don't know where. Coffee I can find. All the way from Machu Pichu, this fair-traded pack. Scissors are in the drawer, which ...

Hometime Foam Time

It was hot outside, cold indoors. When we were freed from the hall I opened my car thinking oven gloves might be required for driving. I was weary. I was lined up for a row of shifts- but the evenings are lighter now, and the beach was calling. I drove a wiggly route to Veryan (the road I chose was closed) and down to Carne Beach. Since I had checked the weather the wind had turned easterly, and the tide was in. There were waves smacking over a disappearing line of fine sand. Undeterred I wriggled my swimsuit on and went to play in the foam. Neither air nor sea was particularly cold. Blue and cloud patterned sky, blue and turquoise patterned sea, flowers blooming and swooshed by the wind, and the warm brown crags of rock: to be here was to be directly connected to the source of all existence. Home time was foam time, and vice versa. Afterwards I sat in my car, door open, eating a square of dark chocolate, watching the white flecks and trying to work out if the dark dot was a...

Wishbone Soup Cures Everything

Search This Blog