The Owl is not what he seems.

Flickering on the edges
Of that reality
Only existing in the dull light
Of television
He sat, stage left
Ocassionally panning to centre.

Now his time
In the leading role
Perhaps
The owl is not what he seems.
For a lifetime -
Watching, perhaps
He has gleaned what afflicts
This sorry state.

Gaël Givet

Downtrodden he peers,
One brow always cocked higher than the other,
Like a minor character in
Madame Bovary.
But those Norman towns
Sun-swept in a ciderhaze
So far from Arles!
If he did not rise each morning
And to Brockhall go
He would surely be one of those
Perpetually anonymous caricatures -
The French peasant
Avec pitchfork, hay bailer, cap wearer,
Moleskin waistcoat too tight
Braces a-loosed.