Last night, we heard an owl nearby, its soft hooting call was repeated over and over. Looking for company, perhaps.

I was transported by that haunting call to when, aged nine, I had to learn this poem, and recite it in our junior school class.

When Icles Hang by the Wall

When icicles hang by the wall,
And Dick the shepherd blows his nail,
And Tom bears logs into the hall,
And milk comes frozen home in pail,
When blood is nipp’d and ways be foul,
Then nightly sings the staring owl,
Tu-whit;
Tu-who, a merry note,
While greasy Joan doth keel the pot. 

When all aloud the wind doth blow,
And coughing drowns the parson’s saw,
And birds sit brooding in the snow,
And Marian’s nose looks red and raw,
When roasted crabs hiss in the bowl,
Then nightly sings the staring owl,
Tu-whit;
Tu-who, a merry note,
While greasy Joan doth keel the pot.

From Love’s Labour’s Lost, Act V, Scene II, W Shakespeare.

Of course, back then, I little new any love of poetry, though the imagery certainly appealed!. But this, and Shelley’s Ozymandias which we also learnt by wrote, hold special memories and significance – and were the germ of my great fondness of poetry.