Owl Songs in the Bygone
The barn is hollowed by time,
greased by phantom tractor engines.
A rusting spade and shotgun,
laid-up in the shadowy bygone.
A dusty hayloft full of owl songs.
The mice are out in the fields,
where the corn once waved as it shone,
they know that night birds,
will dream of blood soon.
rodents burrow
into the dark for yet more dark.
Owl throats fill and billow,
as echos deep with the mossy timber.
Awake now, the owls fly silent,
as keen-eyed ghosts of prey
in the overcast.
Through all these shortening nights
and days,
the barn attends to the heartbeat,
of an old fallow farm,
and a lengthening stretch
of dying dreams.
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