I know it’s only superstition. They’re only birds, after all, and I love them. But their recent midnight calls have left me numb.
You see, in folklore and myth it is believed that owls are the messengers of death. And that’s been my own recent experience.
When my dear father was incredibly ill three years ago, my mother told me that she’d seen owls perching on the wall. This is a rare sight in the area where my parents live. I saw it as a portent – a sign that my Dad was leaving us. They visited for a while and after my father passed, they haven’t been seen again.
And now, I’ve heard them calling in my own garden. Back and forth, back and forth, their calls echoing around. I knew our dog, Toby, was ill – very ill. He just hadn’t been himself. My heart would sink every time I heard them calling, wondering if they were calling his name.
Toby left us yesterday, a victim of pancreatic and liver cancer. I wrote this poem before I had to say goodbye to him forever.
I still love owls…
