52 Crows I can't believe its Week 41!

 the crow died 

t_h_i_s_ _i_s_n_’t_ _a_ _p_o_e_m_ _a_b_o_u_t_ _s_u_s_p_e_n_s_e_ _

or murder 

it is about a bird 


into the wrong space 

six feet northwards 

would have suited better 

where the grass 

requires a sit-on mower 

and the yew has low branches 

here are high stone walls 

backdoors peoplenoise 

it had grey lips 

where its beak hinged 

and thin streaks on odd feathers 

as if it had strayed too close 

to wet white paint 

it was loud 

but it died 

it strutted round the paths 

but it died 

its parents came once twice 

demonstrated flying zig zag routes 

up out 

of this too tight space 

too late 

we realised they never fed it 

and our cheese afterthoughts 

did no good 

on Sunday morning 

there was no cawcawcaw 

I found it behind the dark green leaves 

in the jungle corner 

against the far wall 

its feathers black and glossy 

its eyes white 

lifted it with a turned out plastic bag 

watched its wingspan drop open 





Written by Jan Dean @glitterpoet



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