"Autobiographies of great nations are written in three manuscripts – a book of deeds, a book of words, and a book of art.
Of the three, I would choose the latter as truest testimony." - Sir Kenneth Smith, Great Civilisations

"I must write each day without fail, not so much for the success of the work, as in order not to get out of my routine." - Leo Tolstoy

I have never believed that one should wait until one is inspired because I think the pleasures of not writing are so
great that if you ever start indulging them you will never write again. - John Updike

"The life of every man is a diary in which he means to write one story, and writes another; and his humblest hour
is when he compares the volume as it is with what he vowed to make it." - J.M. Barrie, Peter Pan

Friday, August 10, 2012

R.E. Slater - The Owl and the Night Wind (a poem)




The Owl and the Night Wind
by R.E. Slater


The Owl spoke to the grey night wind
each evening in the gathering dark.

Each proceeding in twain evensong
twin sepulchers to night's hastening drift.

As night wind wafted in gentle voice
speaking to a sun-whitened moon greyly lit.

Shining pale across evening’s restless shorelines
flashed upon a silvery water’s tumbling wake.

Each praising starlight’s sustaining graces
bourne a summertime’s waning warmths.

Lifted on a weary wind’s ceaseless cares
across shoreline and seaside’s heaving breast.

Across burnished swales of darkened dunes
silent guardians to night's soundless keeps.

Then hushed in the willowy strands of poplars
risen above tipping uneasily their gnarly perch.

Slipping in-and-out of their bedtime chambers
coloured in drowsy repose of dappled silhouette.
Where once was heard a wizened Owl
beneath windblown canopies now saged.

Breathing a settled, stilling silence entombing
no further transgress nor wander its sudden stranger.

Holding fast the feet of it’s tempted traveller
absorbed in night’s fleeting dreams and thoughts.

Transfixed somber evensong’s moonlit sonatas
playing melancholy notes off its beating breast.

Beating time with shoreline's moaning tides
breathlessly composed to the tilted ear.

Where wind and moon, wave and tide, bestirred
temple’d wanderers adrift heavenly altars fixed.

Pressing forward, not by force, nor will,
but by passion’s sweet siren songs alluring.

Each filling evening's restless grace
within hidden solitudes of greying light.

Somberly intoning nocturnal compositions
where once crept things dark and dread.

And there inspiring abiding devotion
before myriad fears fraught and frayed.

Sped a feebled heart’s restless prayers
there betrothed a breathless deep.

Once peering into empty voids and chasms
like breezes bended upon a rising wind.

Hearing but only echoing silence
where no silence had ever been.

Whispering yesterday’s tumbling tomorrows
glancing across quicksilver’d rays of joy.

Becoming one with earth and sky abroad
Inhaling a deepening bliss preserved.

Begun on a solitary vespered eve
glimmering silvery trust and content.

Knowing all will be well no matter the hour
Lifted onto the wings of the grey night wind.


R.E.Slater
orig. July 30, 2012,
rev. Aug 29, Sept 23, 2012; Feb 22, 2013; Jan 16, 2015; Sept 13, 2017


@copyright R.E. Slater Publications
all rights reserved