The Tawny Owl perched high in the copse of birches
At the Edge of the well wooded glen
And surveyed the scene of unending snow
That rippled in blues and whites
Clear to the Cairngorms.
Proudly, because he could,
He swivelled his head around in a 180 degree arc
To see what lay behind his hunting blind.
More snow and ice.
Same as yesterday.
'What if', he thought, 'I had been hatched a Swallow
And followed my natural inclinations
To winter in North Africa in the sun baked heat.
A nest in Marrakesh would have been best.'
Robert Frost stood in a yellow wood
Looking down divergent roads
And choosing the grassier, leaf covered
Road less travelled by.
Perhaps the other path home would have
Brought him happiness as a woodcarver.
As a teacher,
Or a swinger of birches.
And what if, as I stood at the ticket counter,
I had, just as haphazardly, purchased a ticket
Bringing me home
On that road that bent through the undergrowth
One week earlier...
Would I have found my Marrakesh
In the sun baked warmth of your smile?