Motionless but for a revolving head, waiting
palely, a faint outline in the brooding darkness suddenly rends the air with a psycho scream,
A ghostly flight as it sweeps the ground
waiting silently, a sentinel of the dying light,
seeking the future through scampering feet,
blood for a scavenger’s brood.
White against the starlit sky she prowls,
listening and arguing her rights to voles and creatures scuttling through shifting grass,
leaving her organic waste.
Perched in the rafters of the blacknight barn,
searching eyes for a mouse, farm fresh food,
feeling the affinity with hard pressed farmers
she bides, a spirit of grace.
Harmony of flight and a soul of lost moments,
she lifts her wings in prayer to a quiet God
and eyes shut, roosts in the crumbling tower of
a once watching church.