wordsout from Cafe Church poems by Charles Jobson   home



Midnight skies

It is not a common thing
to see an owl in a broken down barn.
Nature saves her rare beauties
for when we do not scorn at what she has created.

One night, far long ago,
I was that privileged person
as I waited restlessly for
the Harvest Room.

The storm clouds broke
and a small pipestrelle bat appeared
it seemed from out of nowhere.

It was not like Mercury,
a messenger from the Gods,
it was the quiet world rewarding us
for a gentle and not mocking patience.