Old Barn



I slept last night like an old barn.
	
	Hay lay in a prolongued way, between green and yellow.

The owl hooted softly.

		You appeared in the moonlight, 

		slatted through the frame, maybe a gun down

				by your leg, to stun me to the worried life.


I joined the hoot, that confident ooooo of wait and see.
I waited there, thinking it best 
til the moon stopped prying through the boards

	
	and I could be gone upon waking,
	the day breaking with no memory
	or reason for me to have been, or go.  




© Copyright 2003 Peter Chapman

Home