A Lonely Soul
A silver form appeared to show that daylight was fading
like the old man’s life; he dropped the straw he was holding.
His eyes followed the flight-path of the owl as she soared
over the allotment, with outstretched wings pounding.
The moon was only a small streak on the horizon
but the old man knew that black and white were fusing.
It was that strange twilight hour when he loved to watch her,
his fixed eyes tracing the shadowed silhouette performing.
His adopted offspring had long since fledged, leaving the nest
in his hat, and wounds in his heart that needed binding.
The owl’s feathers glistened with stardust as she took off
without a thought that the scarecrow needed befriending.