Poetic responses to ‘Barn Owl’ by R.S Thomas.
Her arrow flight feathers start to unstitch.
I look into her eyes see the shape
of the sky bouncing back. Wings tilt
as a surfer on a wave. I watch the head
mould my day into her bottomless beak.
The field tries to stay low as rodents
hide in gun barrel holes. She moves
in mute shows me a life I can only see.
The apache wingtips take me to Westerns
on a black and white television.
Her face is a sliced-in-half Granny Smith.
Someone mows the lawn tries to confuse
her satellite head. I sit with fidgeting hands
hiding from cold talons. She waits as the wind
brushes passed. Something moves.
The trees cymbal leaves, clouds dim
the light, a cough snaps a sunbathing man.
Wheat becomes paint brushes colouring in
the sky. Then she flies towards me
two sycamore seeds thrown at my heart.