Mother Owl

Singing stars, of galaxies long

Gone,

Or soon

To be – or still to become.

Mother Owl

Who watches over her offspring,

Hears the odd, rustling songs of the night,

She seeks deep notes to hum,

Calling all the angels into existence,

And will sing

The night along,

Having created encircled lands and islands,

Nights where the fierce howl

Of the wolf of electric fur,

Who would prowl

Along the diamond-enchanted snow,

Tiptoes

Under the sky,

Sent

To bring into being the waves that reach the far rocks

On the ice-riven

Sandbars;

The Owl gathers all the threads, the strands

Of day and night,

With which to build her

Holy nest,

All the stories ever told,

And all the rest,

All the arrows that light

The way.

Mother Owl,

Of ringed mists, dark and gray,

Queen of all, author of being,

Purveyor of the sunset and the arctic flight –

Where now fly the flocks

Of geese

That unfold

In the black sphere, white-winged,

Where the friends of the night still

Watch and remember?

Mother Owl, essence of meaning,

Bringer of peace,

When

Will you fly,

To re-imagine all the worlds that are to be again

In the cool spring of the twinkling brook

Within the mists of the moon,

Within the mountain of the mystic dawn

Of yesteryear?

After a wise look –

The clear-singing Owl,

Steps upon the branch half-bent,

Takes flight

Across the star-gowned

Night,

Through light rains blessed

And gladly given,

Drifting down.

© Copyright, Sharon St Joan, 2024