In the grey cloudlight of a pre-dawn moon

something stayed my dream

a stray insistent noise heard through sleep

the uncertain call of the hunting owl:

I am knelt naked at the window -

beneath, the frosted grass glimmers in the pale creamglow

hazy through the early swirls of mist

but not a shade or waft disturbs the spectral scene

although my flesh seems chilled by some slight air.

The owls have drifted far and their calls echo off

skeletal trees standing black guardians to the scene

holding the far world at bay while dark unlit patches

shade lost and hidden secrets in the abyss below

I, visitor to this spirit world, observer

to this closer orbit, like the owls,

hunt for wraiths in the night's phantasy

seeking the whisper, the faint breath that woke me

the touch that raised the hairs on my arm

yet vanished as I called and called

my cries fading into the garden airs

as if she had never been