The Owl and the Marmalade
Created | Updated Mar 1, 2020
The Owl and the Marmalade
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| I am outside on a Sunday morning, Before breakfast To gather wood For the fire From the shed. A thick October mist Has brought a deep, Ancient silence and peace To our little garden. The owl breaks cover From the old Yew Tree With a muffled thud. Down the lane, On the corner by the farm, I know that The charcoal dark branches On the dead tree On the corner, By the turn to the farm, Are reaching through the mist Into the sky. In this timeless enveloping, I imagine that The mist lies across the whole country Across a bronze age land, Of track and tor, From here in the lee of The Black Mountains To the ocean in the West, That mist lies across The Barrow, The Beach woods The old oaks On the brow of the hill, Across the otter by the River Wye, Sleek and brown on the riverbank. The mist mutes the blue of the kingfisher, As she flits above The fast flowing water, just Where it runs smoothest Over the big stones In endless streams of green, liquid silk. And I shall go inside Have butter from the farm, Marmalade, thick cut, bitter and dark, And sit in front of the orange and red Of the morning fire And enjoy the familiar scent Of wood smoke, And we shall be toasty. |
