Winter

A black crow clings
To the rim of an old clay chimney pot
One of four, above the wet slate roof
Like an oil slick on a dark sea
Its very own titanic.

A gull, wings rigid and angled,
Like a kite, battles forward
Against the prevailing, whilst
A pigeon hurtles, wings tight in
The opposite way.

Dull light on heavy clouds
Burden the day and echo,
along, around and above,
there is no other sound
just waiting

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