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
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