Owl Hours

What a gleeful chest of stolen images,
Waking life grants us its treasures
For wondrous taking, bestows a

Swaying form: an owl astride a wire, a
Turning, curious figure above the
Abandoning dark, the dust-weight of
Night ascending slowly through the hues

Like a child’s playful hand delighting
To run fingers over coloured pencil tin,
Feel each barrel’s braille-story sing
From heaviest blue to the lightest

Daylight where we feed on afterimages,
Years string together living dreams that
Dwindle to be reborn in our owl hours.

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Liquid Crystal Youth (17 December*)

On my mother’s bedside cabinet
I remember
Two metal handles: ornate, gold or brass
In colour.
Papers, books, glasses
I think I remember,
Replacing items with the
Probability of memory’s gaze.
But a box I know for sure
Was there, containing time,
The universe and mysterious green lines.
Oh magical clock!
When did I first seize upon
Your secrets,
Your gearless mastery of time?
I wanted only to control
Another box, more powerful,
Precious holder of my favourite programs,
Mighty television I kowtowed before
Your scheduled pleasures.
I don’t remember when
Those green shapes
Slotted together
Into perfect
Meaning.

*The second of the two “I Remember” quick-writes I did, with a touch of editing.