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The plough is overhead, while the north star

Sits above the park, but all the rest

Have disappeared beneath late evening cloud

Drifting up the channel from the west.

A gentle scuffling behind the fence,

perhaps our lonely vixen with her sight

On easy killings, but the noise dissolves

Into the undulations of the night,

The only sound across the darkened wood

A solitary owl call from the void,

His cry unanswered even by the gulls

Who swoop in silence, seemingly devoid

Of life, their spectral presence outside earthly laws;

As I wait for the cat to come indoors.

Brian Hick Spring 2011

©copyright Sally Hick 21.4.23