The Kids

I’m not scared any more, since I’ve kept goats
And seen the world’s glow through their slanted eyes,
A sort of amber-coloured light disguise,
With quizzical uncertainty and notes
Of worried bleating from their exposed throats,
Horror and passion, courage and surprise
Producing unexpectedly soft cries.
Who could be frightened, when a full heart floats?

It was an owl that shrieked. I think it was,
I hoped, and prayed it was, an owl that shrieked.
Was I in fact their target, were they piqued
By my not being frightened just because
I love the quiet, unassuming buzz
Of bees, and children young and apple-cheeked?