Laugh?

Poem

The raucous caws of ragged, black crows

Shriek across wet fields

Their winged beat

Like the portents of sick friends

Or perhaps worse. Enemies.

But no matter. Move on

This preamble to the inevitable

Is a matter of course. Routine.

An assembly to a rag-time chorus

So who cares if it is dismal

And raining yet again. A damp curse

On this new New Year

The sun will rise

At some point

And we will regain the light

If not a full supply

That tumult

Of humour

That we might wish for

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