Omen

 

 

The Blackthorn’s white

against the lane

 

& lightning strikes

the schoolhouse oak:

 

a dead crow’s feathers

blight my field

 

harbingers of death

as Princes leave

 

while full moon glowers

through empty tree.

 

‘’April is the

cruellest month’’

 

where hope dissolves

on sleet torn glass

 

& you & I

are cast aside

 

as wild winds whip

our story.

 

 (Listen here)

Advertisements

Leave a Reply

Please log in using one of these methods to post your comment:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s

This site uses Akismet to reduce spam. Learn how your comment data is processed.