Tawny Owl.

Tawny Owl.

"Shouting and calling, sometimes going round in circles when he thought he was proceeding in a straight line."
The Decameron, by Giovanni Boccaccio, describing Pietro, lost in the forest towards nightfall.

An owl’s call. Our forest is full of owls.

Owl

last night at the joint of dawn,

an owl’s call opened the darkness

miles away, more than a world beyond this room

and immediately, I was in the woods again,

poised, seeing my eyes seen,

hearing my listening heard

under a huge tree improvised by fear

dead brush falling then a star

straight through to God

founded and fixed the wood

then out, until it touched the town’s lights,

an owl’s elsewhere swelled and questioned

twice, like you might lean and strike

two matches in the wind

- Alice Oswald

A memory

Outside in the garden at dusk. The sound of a crow in a far tree. Here, a blackbird, here another crow, here chickens cluck and roost. Behind, a wood pigeon, over there another one replies, there, a third, a fourth, over there, another crow, then two, then three.

I close my eyes. I am pinned in space on threads of sound woven by these dusk time birds. 

A forest is a real landscape and it is our imagination. A forest is mythology. A forest is a dream. A forest is our unconscious.

A forest is a real landscape and it is our imagination. A forest is mythology. A forest is a dream. A forest is our unconscious.