Tag: In my deepest January

In my deepest January,frequently the sky is pink,trees hunched over, shy and nude,creeping round churned up fields. In my deepest January,carrion crows, grey as fading ink,pick at drowned worms, rudeand raucous as they wield sharp, curved beaks then sinkthem into mud, cackling a lewdcaw. Breaks in the treeline revealthe village church, a chink of grey […]