that i might treat a a committee of crows
perched in a tree as a good omen...
       that it is still england in the morning
and the skies are overcast -
but the sun is teasing an entrance -
   there's nothing sleepy about such
a morning - a pride of two feet readily
available - not ever shackled to a machinery
beside the bone the muscle the tendon -
yes: in that it can be such a rare sight
to see a committee of crows perched in a tree
like jewels in a crown;
   a mythical england when the skies
are overcast that such a morning
is hushed yet brisk - when the stones are
seemingly joyous with their impertinence -
that stones could be treated as such:
          so much so... that a committee of crows
perched in a tree - with their understood silence:
not a solitary croaking or cawing -
                       glutton of the rhapsodic -
    teasing winged cerberus of the gallows -
supreme judge of the arithmetic of winds -
                 fellow guide -
                           an electric pulsation of
seizures: a base for wide-awake on such a morning;
mythical england when the skies
are overcast - in a near distance the seas
lazily yawn a tide receding -
                      of so little this contentment
with a somewhow necessary superstition -
                 that something can be uncertain
and doesn't need a theologian's orthodoxy
   mantra - or for that matter a never-sunday
proposition that: this little no-matter superstition
is only a reinvented spontaneity.