The Owls Are Not What They Seem

Strange flutters at night.

They crawl from the holes in the quay wall and climb up the mossy rocks.

Their feathers soiled by oil and muck. The downy softness of youth has left with the outpouring tide, but they’ve sharpened their beaks and talons on the anchor chains.

 

I lay still in the hull, listening as they creep between the moorings, large eyes astute and bright in the darkness.

Out for mischief and terror.

The hoots and wails sound out on the wind.

The Owls are not what they seem.

 

I can hear them scratch around in the gravel as they surround my boat in force and begin to climb the ladder and up over the cabin, towards the mast.

Talons clicking along the gunwales, eyes peering huge and evil through the bow hatch, into the darkness where I lay.

 

Up the mast they climb, and swing from the top, back and forth in unison, trying to violently rock me from my cradle, and instil terror in my heart and paranoia in my mind.

 

Soon after, they cease and leave for another boat to bring down and pick apart.

With the rising sun they’ll disappear again, back to the cracks and holes in the quay wall, until the wind picks up on another moonless night.

We need to watch these owls. They are not what they seem.

 

13^th July. ’15.

Ponsharden Boat Yard.