Waiting for Owls – New Poem 1st draft

Waiting for Owls
We wait at the corner of a field.
Grass underfoot roughed up with frost
cracks and sighs as we stand.

Tops of trees are stark ink sketches,
their lower trunks cocooned in soft mist.

Greylag geese search for a place to roost
in the reeds, loudly beating the air
with black dipped wings.

Night waits for no one and drinks away the light.
Iced puddles we stamped on are freezing over again.
Its dropped four degrees since we left the car
at the lane over on the other side of the lake.

There’s tea in a flask, but we leave it there.
not wanting to take our eyes off the shifting skies.

I watch a dilapidated barn, great, messy gouges in the roof.
It’s the sort of place you would go, only if a friend dared you to.

Like the spark from a flint,
the first star flickers into view, then the second.

We turn our bodies slowly, scanning for signs
then, the broad silhouette of a short eared owl
moving faster than I thought it would have been,
mighty moth wings silently navigating the night air.