Old Eight Hoots
Winter has touched us
with this change of clocks
and darkness clutches now,
an hour or so too soon.
Old eight hoots watches:‑
he calls; I cough;
but he will not swoop.
He sits tight‑perched, out of sight;
chills me with his ghostly chorus,
hoo‑hooing me home.
Bright stars crackle the sky.
Frost crisps fallen leaves.
A mist weaves webs scarce‑seen.
And all around,
as cold ground creaks
its wordless tongue‑leafed language,
night‑shapes abound.
rogermoorepoet 
I like it Roger, will have to go to Hooters soon
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E-mail on the way!
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gastradamusauthor @gmail.com
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I really like this one. The descriptions of cold are spot on. To me, the crackle and crisps are really effectful.
Thanks for sharing! 🙂
Embla
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Thank you so much. It is an older poem, Embla, written wile walking round the block, early fall, and listening to the owl(s) calling as I walked the dog. I tried to imitate their calls (the cough). I could hear them but never see them. Thank you for visiting.
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I love the imagery in this. I hope it warms up quickly for you, Roger!
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