The Memory of Owls.

I do not wish to wake the sleeping owls
Who slumber in the pines locked in feathered dream;
I just wish to wander beneath the leafy trees
And gather their spirit to my breast
And take solace from their stoic existence.
I wish to sit by the little brook
And let its chatter fill my conciousness;
Count the finny trout of my youth,
Lament the loss of the bank voles
And watch the dapple sun
Play on the sparkling silver water
Of the stone dam we built as kids.
I wish to search for the blue and white
Pottery shards among the ochre stained stones,
Fill my pockets with treasure
My head with memories,
Then creep away
Leaving the tawny dreamers in  peace,
Till the shadows rinse away the light,
Till twilight stirs their wakefulness.