Gedicht
Patrick Cullinan
My Predawn Owl
My Predawn Owl
My Predawn Owl
Vocatus atque non vocatus deus aderitThe scent of God, redolent and tart,
Who lies within a winter dream,
Hovers in the reek of guavas
Contained within the wooden bowl.
Tonight the owl who glides between
Dream and waking, dark and light,
The owl who guides the soul of all
Who sleep within this house,
Now glides along its aerial
Labyrinth, from east to south
From north to west,
Above and through the leafless boughs.
O ancient wing, O sacred ghost,
Hoo-hooing through my open door,
O anti-Sun that calls and dips
Below the False Cross summoning
The distant years, you tell me, tell me:
The past is all the fact I have,
Memory my only fiction,
Below the silent sanction of the stars.
© 2003, Patrick Cullinan
From: Transformations
Publisher: Snailpress, Plumstead
From: Transformations
Publisher: Snailpress, Plumstead
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My Predawn Owl
Vocatus atque non vocatus deus aderitThe scent of God, redolent and tart,
Who lies within a winter dream,
Hovers in the reek of guavas
Contained within the wooden bowl.
Tonight the owl who glides between
Dream and waking, dark and light,
The owl who guides the soul of all
Who sleep within this house,
Now glides along its aerial
Labyrinth, from east to south
From north to west,
Above and through the leafless boughs.
O ancient wing, O sacred ghost,
Hoo-hooing through my open door,
O anti-Sun that calls and dips
Below the False Cross summoning
The distant years, you tell me, tell me:
The past is all the fact I have,
Memory my only fiction,
Below the silent sanction of the stars.
From: Transformations
My Predawn Owl
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