Winter of The Raven

Snow covers the ground

and now the Earth may keep her secrets

for another season.

The songbirds have gone;

replaced by the fat, black Raven.

His long, wicked beak

probes and penetrates,

seeking carrion in the new world.

 

This is a world where all things die

and we used to bury our dead,

but now we render them to ash.

Where once battles were fought

and wars were waged for dominion

over the Earth’s hidden secrets;

we broadcast our ashes now.

 

That stain on the perfect ice fields,

but no longer with brave blood;

now we shower the winter

with our sorrow and regret,

under the brief sun’s presence,

before the darkness falls again.

 

I watch the raven drive its beak,

through a crust of grey ice.

He squawks gleefully

and prods

with his thick, hooked scimitar

and blood gushes from the ground.

He fluffs up his long, black feathers;

blood drips from his beak

and stains the smudge charcoal conscience

of once pure, white winter skin.

 

The life still lives

in the harsh world’s heart.

Only her skin has gone cold.

 

HG – 2016