some more poetry
A Murder of Crows
An empty field calls them
and echoes of their calls.
Too few now come
to council and lament
their father’s father’s
days, when fields ran wet
with slaughter and corn.
Too few. The young
forget, as youth demands,
and time. They follow
the road and sing no more
amongst the scattered grain.
Too few. The caws
fall silent as the old
take wing and the sky,
once black, shades grey.