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.


What do you think?

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )


Connecting to %s