The Clouds Come Bearing Crows Poem by Sheena Blackhall

The clouds come bearing crows
There is nothing cosy in Nature
Death ticks round like a clock,
Not for applause or thanks

The illiterate buzzard grallochs the silly dove
A pillow, spilling the beans
All that is born turns in the falling dance
Conkers roll like children,
Splitting their sides, repeating

This is my seventieth year beneath the sun
I'm a smudge that time's erasing
My appetite for power, for passion's gone

All that beavering away, for justification
Ever seeking a reason for being
Nailing myself to the earth in meditation
Perhaps it's down to the drive
Beyond dream or logic or art,
For procreation