The few stone houses
Of the village still
Standing, up
To their waists
In stinging nettles,
Doorways eternally wide-
Open, windows that were
Once their eyes one
By one plucked out, home now
To mythic hoot owls mooting over
The specter of tatterdemalion
Orphans playing nonstop
War on wind buffeted marble
Threshing floors.
The rhythm and sounds of this, read aloud, are terrific! The poem is vivid and moving. The surprising word choice "mooting" is wonderful for the owls in many ways! All in all, a fine portrait of the village houses and the orphans playing inside them.
ReplyDeleteIt is indeed reassuring that at least one wise owl out there gives enough of a hoot about this offering to let me know. :)
ReplyDelete