Down lies a still smouldering crow,
his sullen wings saturated
with fast-drying wines.
The rouged soils rupture and burst

into bloom. The rotting welts  
turn green with age.
Now petal spill
like blood from the buds
The wilting, creasing constellation.

Down lies a smouldering crow.
He wears his mother’s
face now, as he rests, at last,  
amongst the flowers without a
casket  
to separate.

Now feathers spill
from hollow bone, and cold  
eyes widen, blind.

The birdsong  
will be  
silent
yet now  
until  
spring.

Up rises the dimmed dove
with wings unfolded, revealed
as a stray unsent letter -
the white cross. Even still,
where the flight feathers
dust upwards, they

do not reach the sky.
Because, although they are
white and soft,
ash bruised skies

refuse to open.
The winged shadow stitches
into the poppies below,  

darkening
vermilion into a sickly rouge.

A crow lies beneath.
Too young to die, yet
old enough to fight.
His poppyseed eyes
are eternally blind
to beauty
of the dove.