Am I taking care of my pet owl, or is he taking care of me?
For poet and artist Frieda Hughes, the only balm that can soothe the pain of her broken leg is the company of her Arctic snow owl, Wyddfa
THE VIEW FROM HERE
My left leg in a brace still hobbles me,
While crutches are the pivots on which I swing
My lumpen limb before I’m told; “heel toe, heel toe”.
Mostly caged in the kitchen my view is gathered in
To a bowl of birdseed beyond glass and windowsill sparrows,
While feathers gather in all corners of the floor
Set loose by the futile flapping of my house-bound owl,
Both of us confined by limitation; my leg, his wing.
I ice my knee beneath his snowy gaze; he’s as much
A stranger to the frozen core of things as I am to immobility.
Once, a day of sleet and snow left the tarmac of the yard
As unspoilt white as any Harrods bedsheet. I grasped
My Arctic owl and firmly placed his feathered feet
In the centre of this newly spotless universe, into which
He all but disappeared. The chrome yellow stones of his eyes
Judged the distance from the building to his foremost claw.
He saw the big red front door wide open, and,
Lifting his little owl pads like clown shoes, he ran,
His wings flailing, his tail spread, his head forward,
Making for home and the warmth of his perch by the Rayburn.