a tale of ravens, plague and Poe

Covid’s a modern tempest  

seen through clear skies, 

sleeps in contrails on

cold spring days.

Life and death, passed

down infernal cracks.

Once countries now

only death’s kin, their

fallow lands wait.

Corvids break and enter

in a black feather crush,

harsh caw of rust songs,

lamenting dead domains.

Sin burnt black feathers,

the harbinger calls this

long expected doom.

Plague teller, reluctant prophet.

A luminal one, black comet’s bane.

While jets sit tarmac silent,

once full family and friends. 

Now bright parked as sea birds, 

wide beaked and empty bellied.

If you breathe soft and slow, 

strain to listen under the song.

You will hear the wings

of London Tower, no more.

Once tapped a beak at

Poe’s chamber door.

Was a corvid wind, 

this “nevermore”

© Dai Fry 6th March 2020.