LIQUORICE

I see
Behind the branches of a tree
Branches swaying, blackened cracks on grey
The foggy sky-birds wheeling up in rain,
In dark-stained, feathered shoals,
Kniving through the water-laden sky
And flying in the falling flood
And breaking all the time like flies,
Like liquorice with wings,
Like ink-drops,
Letters written and unwritten on the sky,
Struggled by the storm
But ever turning form on form
A grey to light,
The clouds to flight
And then they die beyond the window frame.

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