The Dead Hill Of Owls Poem by Leslie Philibert
The Dead Hill Of Owls
not just a white horse
more a fifth element
the hundredth stone in a dry stone wall
a neckless shout
over black-boned-broken
diggings hidden in gravel
You Mount of Lakshmi!
a gloom bird, flat-faced
teacher of graven land;
shoes on the table
the fat earth dripping
the owls drinking rain
as they sing for the ones
to be called, they watch
like a ring of stone.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
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5/4/2024 8:33:57 PM # 1.0.0.1119
