John Scully (19th October 1947 / London)

On a wild and dreary hill,
the sun still on the horizon,
a running flock of birds
swirled and gathered, home to roost.
Their bodies stark against the dusk of day,
curling, as one upward,
and in a flash drifted away
as shadows lost.
And the last of the sun,
shone through the coming rain
silently, to disappear ghost-like,
into another day, on another world,
million and millions of miles away.