Una Selva Oscura

Nel mezzo del cammin di nostra vita

mi ritrovai per una selva oscura,

ché la diritta via era smarrita.

Inferno - Dante

In the dark wood, a muntjac barks -

a darker darkness in the shadow of trees.

Above, rooks are roosting - a canopy of cawing -

And - higher still - scimitar wings silhouetted.

'A hobby,' says Mischa.

Our silence below the cacophony of corvids

mirrors

the soundless sweep of raptor wings.

Can he see the still-opal sky

reflected

in our eyes?

We are irrelevant. He glides on.

Along the fence-line,

bats fly flitteringly fleet figures of eight

between branches and leaves

and out -

to skim above the gilding wheat.

'Soprano Pipistrelles,' says Karen

as our monitors emit rapid-fire clicks.

'SP' written on the record, '22:17.'

Blacker now - and deeper than sleep -

the trees close in

and - close by - a keening cry -

'Kee-it! Kee-it!'

We turn, seeking shapes in pitch.

'Tawny Owl,' says Juliette. 'Juvenile.'

Unseen but so near, he keeps us company.

Somewhere, away from straightforward paths,

a feathered ghost, hunts,

haunting

the moonless forest.