04-23-2015, 09:21 PM
Beetle-black with glinty, guilty eye, the carrion crow
comes craving, raucous, raiding.She cleaves the dawn
still wrapped in dreams of sleeping souls. Rasping words
escape through sashes open-cracked, up to the misted sky.
She flinches, as if pricked by flea, when sight or sound
disrupts her flight. A twitch, a twist in mock distress, she calls
to warn but draws the early gun. Flash! Dashed she tumble-turns,
a single quill flat-spins to ground... morning has passed to man.
Still things of blood - furred, feathered or spined -
lie spread and flat on tar grit roads; all gone before the fox awakes.
Wings whiffle down to empty lanes and hide in hawthorn spiked
in white; then swoop to swallow shreds of red from dead of night.
Far afield lie dappled drays, full stretched on grass as damp
as river beds; the mares from night plume golden mists to lift
themselves into the sun. They steam like engines coaled and fired;
shimmered and shivered in to the working day.
See now how God awakes and breaks the wraiths that swirl
and scurry through dove-cooed oaks. Look where the steeple
sheds the shroud, where naked branches starkly sway;
a gentle shifting in the air. April morn has brought an early spring.
tectak
April 2015
comes craving, raucous, raiding.She cleaves the dawn
still wrapped in dreams of sleeping souls. Rasping words
escape through sashes open-cracked, up to the misted sky.
She flinches, as if pricked by flea, when sight or sound
disrupts her flight. A twitch, a twist in mock distress, she calls
to warn but draws the early gun. Flash! Dashed she tumble-turns,
a single quill flat-spins to ground... morning has passed to man.
Still things of blood - furred, feathered or spined -
lie spread and flat on tar grit roads; all gone before the fox awakes.
Wings whiffle down to empty lanes and hide in hawthorn spiked
in white; then swoop to swallow shreds of red from dead of night.
Far afield lie dappled drays, full stretched on grass as damp
as river beds; the mares from night plume golden mists to lift
themselves into the sun. They steam like engines coaled and fired;
shimmered and shivered in to the working day.
See now how God awakes and breaks the wraiths that swirl
and scurry through dove-cooed oaks. Look where the steeple
sheds the shroud, where naked branches starkly sway;
a gentle shifting in the air. April morn has brought an early spring.
tectak
April 2015