Poem: Crows

birds black crow
Photo by Pixabay on Pexels.com

The crows are gathering,
swooping with impunity.
They joust amongst themselves, 
invirtuous caws signalling
our entry into autumn
when trumpets may blow
some strange advent in the sky.
They seem happy, as if
Imperial Rome had fallen again,
a feast to be had. Fast
and feast are opposites – yet
so nearly the same

copyright Francis Barker 2019

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