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Black boughed oaks, snow whitened hills
remnants of a great wood cut for Lydney’s iron mills.
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I searched alone, a white haired boy,
catching unclean little owls with the slow sweep
of a green wool sweater.
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I stared long in the eyes,
of Tawnies, that in another age cured madness.
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Jackdaws called my name from the river bank,
I saved them, from the waters rise,
wrapped them clustered close, in a dark green jerkin,
fed them and on another day let them go back to the wild.
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I dreamt of eagles, hawks and falcons,
but Robins flew to my call, and sat still in my hand.
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At St Anne’s strand in the West of Ireland, black Jack ravens,
clawed at my brow, trying to roost in dusks gathering darkness,
while I stood listening to the Atlantic rollers roar,
and the weeping sigh of the one I loved.
