(art) poems and creations

walking home this misty morning,

the gulls circling in the grey.

the world is still;

unwinding,

slowly winding.

but the crows’ ominous cry

echoes in the silence,

as they flee their entrail feast,

something foreboding;

forewarning from the trees.

but still i cross and still i wander,

closer now than i ever was.

the world is still

and i am moving;

unwinding,

winding still.

i see the

world in black

and white.

these trees

and fields

edited

beneath

winter’s heavy

coat of

primer.