Three Dozen Black Apostrophes

Left marginThree dozen black apostrophes sit atop these skeletal scribbled trees

at a sudden rain-burst, parliament dispersed

wheeled, dropped, flapped, caw-cursed

beaks full of guttural, hoarse harsh verse.

The fire-glow and flame of the hedgerows along Northcott Lane

blaze against the greys of this drizzly October dimsy

stray sunrays illume autumn’s displays

the mid-blast explosions of hawthorn’s berries.

Black branch lightening, permanently striking

against a heavy-rain cloud sky

new moon rising, wryly smiling

mirrored in the misting brook, brim-high.

A lone crow idles through these damp mauve airs

that ring to the choirings of a crownful of starlings

their elegiac hymns

their passionate beseeching prayers.


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