Tuesday, 22 January 2019

soon the black ...

soon the black ...

... rooks have gathered, strut and
strutting, woe betides the moaning sea;
death-blacked, dusk-clacked, clouding 
away to roosting, see them flying
castle-wards, on battlements set and
settling down, dotting the trees of time.

soon the black ...

... cat at the back-cracked widow,
under night’s regaled skirt is sitting, thinking,
and wide-eyed in the wild storm running,
chuckling down the gutters much amused,
by the black stabbed blood of space. 
   know now!
not many have seen what you have seen, for
never was there ever such a godless place as this.

but soon the black ...

... night draws down the dawn, 
around shoulders yawning, as the 
shawled-in darkness slips away 
westward, and oh, how it aches
does glory’s sunrise, graceful,
rook-full, black in snow, up and down
the morning foreshore feast.
up go the gulls, down the rook soot,
shoot the rapids of the rising day;
and when the moaning tide is hushed,
and when calm descends to feeding,
far and away, dotted, mottled,
lies the morning sun, throng and fey. 

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