Friday, 30 June 2017

Out of the wood?


Dark child years ago 
I shot a crow.
That black anvil. 
That wince is frozen still.
An icicle stabbing nail.
How they claw wheeled,
from across the field.
How they screamed hate!

And (now think) of the mate?
So distraught, disconsolate.
I do evince,
I have not killed since.
So what!
So what would please?
Old man on your knees.
Would that you could
be out of the wood?

Oh, yes please, yes please, yes please.

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