The Solitude of Sleep
At midnight, I thought - a long-eared owl
is in hush-flight and hoo from a forsaken crow's nest
to see the black of a field vole's eye.
And for a spell, break an owl's egg,
take an owlet's wing,
steep a feather.
A shadow, the dreep
of a sky cat, how blood must sound
its hiss and simmer from a vein to her.
This matron of twilight, mother of night,
what moonish dreams
she might hear murmured.
And I wish my own wishes,
ear placed upon the chest of another -
there is nothing more intimate than a heartbeat.
Before the solitude of sleep,
beneath a window that frames
the darkness, where the tock-tock
of existence can fill a silence. Oh,
little vole, pulse quiet, life is never more
present than at its cessation.
Image is from here: https://commons.m.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Asio_otus_by_John_Gould.jpg