Old Crow who knows

To not squint at the Sun

Its blazon melancholy arc

Each new day. Black eventually turns grey.


That young world wanting waiting

Nest walls high

New nights raging

Testing tasting.


Fields spread their menus

Thrashing jumping wings

In outrageous energy

A panoply of new green spring sings.


Strong Crow struts

Blue black feathers sleek

Rides the unknown winds well

Midnight moon falls unthinkable.


Gently fading healthy feathers sag

Long way down. Still soar occasionally

Crow sometimes is unsure

Night nearer draws its comfort.


Crow now knows – just time

No wistful wishing safe nest walls

The midnight darkness calls

His head hangs  between the now grey wings.


This entry was posted in Poetry, Uncategorized and tagged , , . Bookmark the permalink.

2 Responses to Crow

  1. Peter Baxendale says:

    Moving -but I struggle with meaning,Mike. I may be dense

  2. delsmith444 says:

    Mike I don’t get it, you can explain all next week.

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