NIGHT OF THE HUNTER

Some years ago, before moving to the coast at Bordeaux Bay, I lived in the Parish of St Peters, one of the few remaining rural parishes.
I had, then, two young and energetic terriers that were always eager to be out and about, and many evenings, after dark, we'd set off together to explore the fields and green lanes of the area.
There is a heady sense of freedom and exhilaration to be had in being out with dogs by moonlight, rejoicing in the rich night scents and reveling in the sense of space and solitude that darkness affords. 
One evening we saw the magnificent owl that prompted this poem.

OWL

In a green lane in St Peter’s

near midnight, under a full moon,

a pale owl

flies across my path, silently,

then low

over dark fields to the tree-line, hunting.

I turn

to watch his tireless sweep

over dumb ground, mist spreading like a shroud,

till I lose sight of him,

and coldness, creeping,

turns my leaden footsteps home.

In bed, near daybreak,

I jerk awake, heart pounding,

mindful of accelerating time, moments eaten up,

of golden, soundless wings,

a questing eye;

sharp talons reaching for my heart.