Wednesday, 2 April 2008

Little Owl- copyright Veronica Aldous

Little Owl

He trembles when he is stroked as if
the spring in him is overwound. I am the same way,
the visitors walk through me having paid.
He feigns sleep and if sleep were possible
in a foyer, then all his dreams are a cinema
of mice and moons and emptiness and shallow
bending wheatstraw. Hush, I would whisper,
hush to his unhearing ears, his dumbfounded brain
if he could fly above me, maybe I would sleep again.

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