The Owl

owl

In Stalmine there’s a Roman road that only very few have seen.
They hide such stuff from common folk, especially from people keen
On stealing treasures from such sites, but I have excavated there,
And taken contour surveys in the dusk, and that’s precisely where
I saw the owl one evening. It was just a saucer face with wings.
A ghost that glided, soundlessly, across the fence. And that’s the thing
With owls in flight, they don’t look real – a disembodied head with eyes
That stare intently as they float across the evening’s duck-egg skies.
It dipped into the tall grass where the camber of the ancient road
Lay hidden in plain view. Ethereal, it echoed long ago
The history of travellers now buried deep in seasons lost –
A wraith that haunts a missing street in search of mice on Stalmine Moss.

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