The Owl Tree

Winter night exhales, a hard white hoar,

As wings on the wind, in silence kill,

A whisper in the grass below.

Upon the highest branch, its throne of sorts,

Sits an ever watchful owl that hoots,

Its hooded eyes, as razor slits await.

Horned moon watches her deadly dryad,

Between pale scuds of clotted cloud,

Raked by the slash of blood red talons.

She is the cold kiss of youths lost dream,

Caught in the claws of a hollow heart,

The rotting oak, is all that remains of me now.