Peter Chapman Poetry

Old Barn

I slept last night like an old barn.

Hay lay in a prolongued way, between green and yellow.

The owl hooted softly.

You appeared in the moonlight,

slatted through the frame, maybe a gun down

by your leg, to stun me to the worried life.

I joined the hoot, that confident ooooo of wait and see.
I waited there, thinking it best
til the moon stopped prying through the boards

and I could be gone upon waking,
the day breaking with no memory
or reason for me to have been, or go.