The Forest Heath. Poem by Graham Jones

While walking round the forest heath
The night began to fall
The temperature did likewise drop
An owl began to call

Too whit, too woo, Too whit, too woo
It came both loud and clear
To echo across the barren heath
Where rodents paused in fear

And then there came a piercing shriek
From over by some rocks
And sillouetted against the moon
The outline of a fox

The nocturnal hunter in his blood
Would start his trek for food
And scavenge anything it found
To feed his motley brood

Across the moon a movement flashed
Flying erratic, as if lost
The shadow of a horseshoe bat
Using aerobatics, to catch the moths

If you stand and listen quietly
To the dark enshrouded night
Its not as empty as it seems
But alive with things that bite

And these are but a few of them
Also badgers that hunt and play
Away from daytimes prying eyes
For our night time is their day.