Owls over Cirencester
It’s a sound like dead men rising from their graves,
bullies up the alley –
hoooo you!
Here’s me
under the duvet,
digging down for safety.
They come down like blankets,
talons like digger’s claws,
the sprung clasps of necklaces.
Lifted, wriggling, squealing.
To get free ensures a drop of forty feet,
certain death.
They come again.
A small mammal is tussled
and carpeted away.
Heavy, muscular beats under a black moon.
It’s over but I will not sleep.
I turn and turn.
Page(s) 46
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