The House In Lincolnshire

Until my sixteenth year
I had been used to trams
Grinding their teeth on granite setts.

In Lincolnshire our new–built house
Fronted a country road
Where white dust wafted like a veil
Behind each passing car,
With ample time to sink before the next.
Back windows looked on fields
With cows that dropped their dung,
And lifted not unfriendly faces,
Staring in mild surmise as people passed.

‘Swanpool’ they called the district.
Across two fields there was indeed a pool
Ringed like a charm with willows,
Wearing silver velvet
Later spiked with green, or thick with pollen.
I never saw a swan. Instead
A small neat bird, nameless to me
Jerked like a clockwork toy
Out of the reeds and in.

On summer nights we had to shut
The windows, or switch off the light,
Else moths like mini ghosts
Came flocking through.
One night I heard a voice,
Pure as a flute,
Calling across the dark to me.
‘You! Who are you?’ it sang.
It was my very first owl.