The Owls

Ulick O’Connor
Black Yews shelter them as they wait, Owls ranging themselves in fixed rows. Like strange gods, they gaze down below, Red eyes flashing, they meditate.
Statuelike, they rest as they have done, Until that melancholy hour arrives When they will live out their own lives
and night will have eased out the sliding sun.
From such the wise become aware That not to accept things as they are, and live on the edge of each moment Obsessed with what is and what is not, Is to shoulder our own punishment For having wished to change our lot.
Page 55, Poetry Ireland Review Issue 28