The rain falls in vindictive little spikes

On this cold May afternoon. The month

Claws itself from the endless winter towards

A season lurking beyond the horizon

Consumed in the darkening Brume.

A figure stands on the corner, stooped

With collar stiff in vain protection. 

The mirrored pavement reflecting a form

As withered as the look he flashes

At the leaden sky. And on the ridge tiles

Above the slates slick stands the Rook,

Not common Carrion Crow, dressed in

Mourners clothes black and solemn. 

Unmoved by the rain he offers his condolences

And turns away.