Apple Crow
Upon the apple tree
a single Crow,
barks,
drily,
across the crowds
of standing,
rustling corn,
as wounded
the sun,
lifts the red
of morning,
empty,
alone
and forlorn.
For into the dark
the silent places,
where shadows call
August,
left alone,
lies weeping,
lost
in dreams
of past
the timely sage,
the coming fall
As summer’s
leaving,
the days
slipping
slowly
across the hours
the settling dust,
the skeletal mourning
of muttering leaves,
the earth turns,
and time passes,
he cries again,
the crow,
as he must,
as he must.
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p1964km@googlemail.com
