Wisdom of the Owl If I could tell you what the wise owl knows it would hardly make much of a book – a poem perhaps, with words that sound something like this: Friend, I’m an owl, my world is simple – I live in the scorch and inundation of seasons. I breed, I fledge, I fly. We owls root in the patience of old trees and their saplings, we stretch our wings to a featherless moon and dine on the scurry of little things. My wisdom? Well, that’s simple too, stuff of the earth which can’t be learned by verse or epithet; sentience of the half-hidden, the space between the trees. And I would rather crane and twist my head three sixty than wring the world’s neck with the blindsight folly of your kind. I’m an owl my good fellow, and a wit. Who are you?
Huw Gwynn-Jones comes from a line of prize-winning poets in the Welsh bardic tradition, but until his recent retirement to Orkney, had never written a line himself. He now writes to find a different way of hearing the world, and has poems published by Eunoia Review, One Hand Clapping and Dreich Magazine.