rookery VI

the high branches of the oak tree,
sway in silhouette,
each notch a single rook,
high at the tip,
like a matchstick.

all the day becomes grey
this is after all novembers way,
its fattened sky lays a heavy hand
across the muted land,
softened by the mulch
of the quietly dying leaves.

babies cradled in warm arms,
sleep well, as the shadows come,
and the murmuring weir,
spills its eddies towards the sea,
lights blink
and the day is done.

i watch the rookery
as it grows, becomes a cawing one-ness
balanced on the high perch,
surveying the dark land,
spread out beneath
them, aimless, timeless, and asleep.

rookery VI

uncleblack

Joined February 2010

  • Artwork Comments 2

Artwork Comments

  • joak
  • uncleblack
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