Tyto & Stryx

I grew up on farms, I knew my barns,
And knew the owls inside.
As paragons of myths and yarns,
They sure did love to hide.
But even with their silent wings, I’d sight
Their calling card,
And know they still clocked-in each night
From pellets round the yard.

The barn owls are the perfect owls,
In look and lore and size.
With heart-shaped masks and earless cowls,
And wisdom in their eyes.
Until, that is, they won’t stay mute,
But let loose with their speech –
And utter not a single hoot,
But a disappointing screech.

I heard the twits and twooing too,
From tawnies in the trees,
But only from a distance, flute and mew,
In two-part harmonies.
Yet round the barns, I only hear the shriek,
Not the trill of charm –
The wrong voice for the owl I seek,
Of the poet of the farm.

Owls, of course, have their own concern,
And do not care for me.
And I should take their lead to learn
To let their natures be.
So when the golden hour is full of cries
I now can grin
As the night-shift owls in the barn arise
And start reporting-in.

Canis lupus canis

Wolves, it must be said,
Make a rubbish pet –
They’re far too wild and free.
So get a husky instead,
If you want to get
That echo of prehistory.
And the malamutes as well
Have the tundra feel,
And even alsatians at a squint –
Most laymen cannot tell
Which ones are real,
They’re built to the same blueprint.

But for all dogs look like wolves,
With their shaggy coats
In black and white and grey –
They’ll act like dogs, not wolves,
Won’t rip the throats
Of our toddlers when they play.
Our forbears spent many tens
Of thousands of years,
To breed-out the threat in the growl.
To be our deceptive friends
With the upright ears,
Who will never bite, but can still howl.

Note that a husky is no more closely related to a wolf than is a pekanese or a dachshund.  It’s true that huskies can still interbreed with wolves, but again this is true of all dogs (logistics notwithstanding…).

Bill-Knobs & Eyeliner

The Mute Swans have the pond to themselves all Summer,
So calm while their chicks are in fleece.
Oh sure, there are the quacks of Mallards,
And the Seagull squawkings never cease,
But all-in-all, they’re kings of the lake,
Seeing off the challenge of the Canada geese –
They even adopt the occasional Black,
And raise their cygnets in peace.

But come October, and in come the mobs of Whoopers,
Honking-up the air.
Even before the last of the cranes has flown,
These tourists are ev’rywhere !
The Mutes protest, but their voices can’t be heard
As the trumpets blare.
But in truth, they’ll soon be rubbing along,
As there’s duckweed-enough to share.

Sheep Music

Camping by a field of sheep
That baa throughout the night –
The farmer says each ewe must peep
To check her lamb’s alright.
One wonders if they ever sleep,
Or keep a state of fright ?
But we are hypnotised by sweeping
Bleats by Luna light.
Until the dawn brings cheap-cheap-cheap
That sound too fresh and bright –
At least the sheep were slow and deep
As they camped besides the site.