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.