The Owl

When the owl calls out, there is a sound, Of ancient woods and moonlit ground, Through the valleys dark where shadows play, The mystery of night has come to stay.

Her voice is clear among the trees, Dragging me back to depths with ease, I hear her wisdom hushed and low, In whispers soft that come and go.

Distant from what the world can give, In the quiet murmur, I seem to live, Where darkness holds an argent light, Awakening dreams till breaking night.

All is hushed, all is still, Here I pause to drink my fill, Of silence born from sinuous flight, In the soulful, sacred heart of night.

As I tread softly, heed my prayer, In the shadow’s cradle, there, softly dare, To whisper unto the watching skies, With the owl as witness, the truth shall rise.

• Edward Thomas