It’s late afternoon as I wander around,

Burnt leaves and ashes still float to the ground,

From the north, quite close, from those grey smoky skies,

From that direction – a night owl flies.

The owl is not sure – It’s awkward and clumsy,

But it catches a branch of a tall slender gumtree,

Then falls to the earth, as though it is grieving,

I think for a moment… about unbelieving.

The air is so still and a prayer can be silent,

But the owl cries with sorrow – a hymn of lament,

And I look with the night owl, with hope, to the sky,

When from that direction another owl flies.