The Wild Crows of the Moors

Black feathers upon the grey stones, Blowing wind among the ancient bones, Lying on the shadowed ground, As quiet as the morning sun.

The mist has sat upon me, And the sky has darkened, As the grey clouds loomed over the shores, of the magnificent ponds.

The night sky, As cold as winter blades, As lonely as a broken heart, Bestrides upon the bedim grass.

As the vociferous black wings Spread through the silent air, A shriek as sharp as a thistle, Echoes in the moors of the dead.

The vast birds land on the rugged turf, Dark; Dazzling. They have left me breathless.

The moors in the night, Below the stellar sky, As beautiful as the brilliant crows.