halftwo
Wird Batcher
The sun slides a pale bony hand into the wood,
Reaching through the leafless remains .
A foraging tit flock picks at dwindling stocks
Whispering amongst the old birches.
Overhead a Raven c'rronks
A black scrap heading home westward
Over a Buzzard's nest marooned -
High on the rocks of the winter's larch.
Exposed by the year's ebbing tide.
Reaching through the leafless remains .
A foraging tit flock picks at dwindling stocks
Whispering amongst the old birches.
Overhead a Raven c'rronks
A black scrap heading home westward
Over a Buzzard's nest marooned -
High on the rocks of the winter's larch.
Exposed by the year's ebbing tide.