By Jane S. F. Angel
We have come here in our summer frocks
To address the mountain.
We were told it would reveal to us
All its wisdom.
We stand with our bare feet
On a patch of snow
And listen to the winds howl among
The jagged pinnacles of rock.
We are not dressed for this climb.
I wear my favourite sun hat
And my sister Patricia has on that pink dress,
The one she made for Mummy’s garden party.
It grows dark, dangerous to linger.
Out of the gloom flies a huge owl,
Bigger than any bird we have ever seen.
Its wings beat down the cold air
Its silent flight takes it soaring up
To the summit of the mountain.
My sister gasps.
Easy to mistake it for a trick of the fading light,
This bird, this owl, this omen.
Hand in hand we walk down the steep path
To the hunting lodge.
We warm our frozen feet by the fire.
Did you find the mountain’s wisdom-they ask.
No-we say- All we saw was an owl
Or did we?