Ghost writing
by by P A Erskine
For Anne
I saw a barn owl yesterday at dusk
float up beyond the oak and write itself
first against twilight yew hedge, white on black
then lazy looping script on ink wash sky
I read its body too as text, dark flecks
on parchment feathers, code scanned from field slope
where, you’d know, I’ve often seen spring hares –
you loved to hear of those. So now I think to write
to tell you of the owl, this rare, elusive flight,
till memory twists. Owl then as manuscript,
sending itself, ghost writer to ghost,
drifting towards the valley, posting into the dark