about an owl

about an owl
 
 
my body aches, I’m sore,
my knees are chafing raw
trousers hang heavy
from last night’s storm
 
I’m far from home
on a quaggy pathway
and it’s sunrise
 
I prop my punctured bike 
against a hedge,
my elbows on
a five-bar gate
 
wondering,
at the majestic patchwork  
of fields of furrows
stretching to a distant
Stone Age barrow
and beyond
 
from nowhere
an apparition – 
fulgent in half-light
attracts the eye
 
a silver weft
of stately owl
overflying
the heavy loam
 
a gunshot
 
a ‘lifetime’ later
(it seemed to me)
the owl returns
flying but struggling
 
I guess she’s dying,
 
I shake my head,
take up my bike and walk.
 

© coolhermit 2021
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critique and comments welcome.
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Griffonner

What else could you do?
… and tell us about it of course. Nice one, Rick.
Allen

My lips are sealed. Promise.

Daffni

Oh no! surely there aren’t people who shoot owls!I suppose there ae. Love your poem though.

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