Twelve or twenty, they’re black,
and wordless they fly with one mind
about the spire. My eyes try
to catch one that doesn’t, but can’t. I hear
a hum. It’s not quite musical, but it is
strangely pretty. Secretly, I know I’m not
meant to hear it. Last night, as I slept
I heard a voice I don’t know, or didn’t
recognize. He wondered, back where I couldn’t
see him, how to break it to us. The birds
and beasts, not like us, he said, he sensed,
know exactly where death takes them.
1 comment:
And know exactly what death takes you away from....
Brilliant poem Francis
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