Eurydice and the Tawny Frogmouth

A poem by Robert Adamson

On the low arch
above our gate,
he looks out
through a fringe
of feathers
hunting,
then places one
foot on black
cast iron and ruffles
his head. His other
foot is clenched
in the night air,
held out
in an atmosphere
of waiting – then
unclenched.
Those nights
flying with you
weighed no more
or less than
this.