The heavens above are frozen in cloud,
Between east and west like a winter’s pond,
The day, under siege, dons a gathered shroud,
That drifts on the song of a vagabond.
The graveyard angels weep their solid tears
For those lost names known only to the dead,
Abandoned now like all their hopes and fears
To nature’s sampler sewn in silver thread.
This dyer’s hand labours with icy cloth
And weaves parodies and burlesque pieces,
Like the ghostly flight of a pale silk moth
Its woven dreams of faith never ceases,
And frosted fingers carve a doomsday book,
To the black psalms sung by a doomsday rook.
Copyright ©RMC Jan 2018
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Ooh I love it, the line “black psalms sung by a doomsday rook” is amazing.
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thank you 🙂
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So there are yours? Photos I mean? I find your perspective interesting. I also love the words, mentioned above. What exactly is a doomsday rook?
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This one wasn’t my photo. It was a free one on WordPress. Doomsday rook – in the graveyard you often see the rooks/crows, their black wings spread like a harbinger of doom. 🙂
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Well you learn something new every day! 😊
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