As we headed mudward
down the wood from the rock tread,
the root steps, suddenly overhead,
a little flock of ravens, their broad
black saw wings gliding arcs
above the birches, saw-cries, 'kraaks'
cutting the air into caverns of darks,
wheel on the jagged edge of broken
dreams, shard into two drifts.
Spoken
the moment, clear the sky,
as if there never were a cry -
and into the silent sigh a woodpecker 'drits'
from the next ridge.
We wait for its
repetition, hushed and attent,
all our speculations spent.
YOU ARE READING
Wintering
PoetryIt's yet another MajorSeventh. Hop on the big shoulders and look ... Lastest poems are always posted last in my collections. Winter. So, expect sparse gardens, late autumn and wintry countryside, wry philosophy and humour, tenderness towards litt...
