A little perfect owl, size of a sparrow
But an owl by manner of intention
I discerned in a flash on a wee branch
As a seat in a vehicle bore me by.
It had no doubts about being an owl
I repeat, quite certain and casual.
To be what you are with no intention
Or concept of being otherwise,
With only the dimmest thoughts about that
Is something of which I won't philosophize;
There being too much made about that stuff:
So much hyperbole about small truth:
Lies shielded by poor refugees from bluff.
Last night a sword-light in the sky
Flashed a swift terror on the dark.
In that sharp light the fields did lie
Naked and stone-like; each tree stood
Like a tranced woman, bound and stark.
Far off the wood
With darkness ridged the riven dark.
And cows astonished stared with fear,
And sheep crept to the knees of cows,
And conies to their burrows slid,
And rooks were still in rigid boughs,
And all things else were still or hid.
From all the wood
Came but the owl's hoot, ghostly, clear.
In that cold trance the earth was held
It seemed an age, or time was nought.