Dark Rooks Poem by Ian Keenan

Wing, wing, dark rooks,
Slow climbing the pigeon pair,
Preening in the bare, beech tree,
Scudding the winter's thin clouds
Northward.

Whence, whence, far rooks,
The silent call? ,
High, so very high the skyline's
Craggy spire;
You cannot know,
Flying your only knowing.

What, what, vast wind,
Draws them to your dawn? ,
Specks now no bigger
Than the eyes of spawn.

He turned to look,
Not seeing,
Alive, but dead,
Heart pumping, barely breathing,
Something having gone elsewhere

With the far, dark rooks
Winging the vast wind,
Northward.