On discovering the real sex of my owl, I began to hatch a plan

Learning that one of her male Eurasian eagle owls was, in fact, a female, poet and artist Frieda Hughes decided to try and hatch one of its eggs in an incubator this week

THE EGG

Lists of concerns that concern me, litter my head on waking,

Shuffling their order of importance and urgency. Some things remain undone

And it becomes their natural state over time, as they fossilize.

Notes of ideas for books from 2010 are heaped in my study as evidence

Of my ideas back then. Paintings remain unhung,

Being constantly pushed aside by the here and now actions

I make daily. And then there’s the egg in the incubator:

It may have an owl in it. For six years its mother kept her secret

So well that I called her Oscar. Her certificate did not sex her.

Out of three, she broke two: I feel fated to hatch one

If it doesn’t die in the shell as a swirling mess of Eurasian owl abstractions

And the beginnings of soft bone, or collapse after hatching

Like a deflating toy, unable to retain air, tired of life before living it.

And then all the urgencies, demands, and other obligations,

The arrangements, invitations and social gatherings,

Will cease to matter as I devote my waking hours

To the upkeep of this one perfect being, whose needs

Will outstrip everything as it doubles in size every three days,

Becoming beak and claws, with eyes as big as gobstoppers

And the cry of an owl child.