Doom\'s Omen.
On nights like these when home-fires burn,
tainting with soot city-fused air,
I hear an owl from my lounge chair
and imagine talons sheathed but prepared.
Thru\' hedgerow haunts he no longer screams
but hunts now in crumbling walls
where once stood candelabra-lit halls
with satin-clad dancers below oaken beams.
On evenings like this a hungry owl swoops
after eyeing chance, wings collapse,
to pluck from hearths mesmerized rats
as dust again settles in castle\'s half-rooms.
From neon-bright roads an owl cry sounds
like doom\'s omen to over-coveted houses.