It was the strawberry season. I know that for certain because a mysterious rash had confined me to sick bay. An allergy was suspected but until confirmed there were to be no visitors. Was it something I ate? I appeared mystified but quietly suspected that after all it had to be the strawberries - the sheer quantity of them. Only a couple of days earlier on a Sunday walk, friends and I had poked through a gap in a hedge and there before us lay acres of fat, ripe berries, their lusciousness pillowed with a straw underlay. We gorged like Bacchanalians and here was I now suffering the results of greed and theft and guilt. Supper had been and gone, and the solitary hours felt sluggish against the tempo of the school's distant sounds. Suddenly an owl called out, several repetitions, very clear and near. 'Kewick-kewick" - such piercing cries, enough to shatter the punishing silence. It was the sound of companionship. Then and there I penned the first of many unfledged poems, unadorned and eponymous: 'The Owl'.
field mice foragers
velvet feet on soft fruit beds
summer's ease for owls
Notes: ‘Kewick’- the sound of female tawny owl – only her mate hoots -see owl calls
Reminiscing on the days before polytunnels and very pleased that Victoria chose my favourite bird for this week’s “Fukuroo–Who? Who? Who? dVerse Haibun Monday