Scanlyze

The Owl

THE OWL

A swift and silent shape by night,
the mice do not find her wise,
But precious and terrible in flight.
And her eyes not unblinking,
swift searching, knowing, unthinking.

If men were small and grey and white,
in terror would we her praises sing.
And build a church upon some height,
adorned with little tiny claws
and images of mice and moths.

Old one-eye on eight-legg’d steed,
neér rode so well on wings as these
choosing slain adrunk with mead.
In gladan fields now heroes roam.
They never prayed midst forest loam.

Nor sang their joy in mortal terror
of goddess born of wind and pain.
Nor feared to squeak a mortal error.
A tiny song of praise and fear:
We hope to live another year.

Do rodents make a tiny pope,
clothed in robes of moss and gold.
And does he speak of faith and hope
and safety later than today,
if only now their tithe they pay?

Copyright © 1997, 2013, 2018 Henry Edward Hardy

27 March, 2018 - Posted by scanlyze | Högskolan i Kalmar, Mediecentrum, owl, poetry, scanlyze, Ugglan | mice, owl, poetry, Pope, scanlyze