Poetry Drawer: Non-Verbal: Dining At The Screech Owl Inn: Outlines by Phil Wood


She finds her deepest breath.
The blur of wings elates
with dragonfly blue,
detonates such joy.
How can a child decode
these winged clues? My daughter
flaps her arms. I translate
and learn how arms are wings
to dissipate winter’s hue.

Dining At The Screech Owl Inn

Hands are a giveaway,
he gloves indoors and out.
No fingerprints, he jokes.
He consumes that juicy rack
of lamb, but leaves the veg.
She doesn’t ask again.
Besides the eagerness
with which he licks and sucks
those ribs tickle her: he thinks
he is a predator,
a lupus to her Lilith.
She smiles, almost beguiles.
He scents her feral breath,
flinches, innocence plucked
from his lycanthrope eye.
He howls. She devours him.


Long is the forest and wide, the sisterhood
of stars like dregs consumed
by clouds. On the paths of relief, a multitude
of pines to ink more gloom.

Lost in the darkness and waking, she lightly sighs
and turns her back on time.
He lies on her floor and meanders tunes for sleep.
He inks a path through pines.

Phil Wood was born in Wales. He studied English Literature at Aberystwyth University. He has worked in statistics, education, shipping, and a biscuit factory. He enjoys watercolour painting, bird watching, and chess. His writing can be found in various places, including recently: Ink Sweat and Tears, Streetcake magazine, The Dirigible Balloon.

You can find more of Phil’s work here on Ink Pantry.

Leave a Reply