The owl, proud, is perched on
The strong arm of an ancient oak
Silhouetted against an azure sky
It’s eyes, golden, stare out into the darkness
Waiting
For the dead
Those lost souls, which the owl carries away
To nowhere
Only the owl knows where she goes
Her talons are eager
But she is content to wait
For the next soul
Silently in the inky blackness
Whooo would have thought Owl would make for such a great poem?
You I guess :)
Jennifer
Paul;-]
(((HUGS))) and much love, your tx. friend, karen lynn. :D
Eileen