The crows of my old battlefields
come out each night to find
remaining flesh and blood,
the eyes of whom is left behind.
They want fresh prey, new meat.
The wind is hauling round the fort,
they fly low over smoke of dying fires.
They pick in wounds. They scratch in eyes.
Last night, deserted now, the battlefields
shone silver under moon and cobalt sky.
The crows took what they could, away,
and cawed some sort of a goodbye.
This morning as I woke, on my pillow lied
a feather, it was black,
the window moving in the wind, and silence.
But they’ll return, they will be back.
This one was not meant to rhyme, but when it did, I just let it do that. I suppose poems have a will of their own 😉