Rooks settle
squawking on willow,
blotches of black
against interminable grey.
Patches of snow remain,
dappling the manky grass,
where a lone sparrow
hops around, in hope.
The limp Union Flag
smothers St George
in the dank, freezing air,
a nation sleepwalking
in a bizarre masque.
Winter’s privation bites
deeper this year;
do the birds suspect —
do they know?
And where do we go?
Copyright Francis 2020
