It’s cold and bright in Albion tonight
Though the snow covered fields
Have little to reflect
From the greyness of the cloud laden sky.
Tonight the owl hunts in vain
As nothing else stirs,
The silence of its glide
Amplified by the hushed tones
Of the icy blanket beneath.
Trees, ghostly sentinels, patrol the hedgerows
That enclose the hunting grounds.
Smoke rises vertically,
Windless from the occasional chimney,
Whitewashed walls invisible
To all but the owl,
Which is itself seen only
By the trees and
Through the aperture of the imagination.