Rooks in the Wind.
With a black shriek of delight
the rooks soar up the sky,
their flight a sudden shaft of dark
across late silver streaks of sun.
Bat-black like ancient leaves
they toss and hurl about, sky sailors
launched from nests as big as ships
that ride on tides of high bare trees.
They surge and dip on a joyful wind:
I want, this moment, to have wings
to rise with a shout of black delight
and sail, yes, sail the endless skies.
If you've any comments on this poem, Gill McEvoy would be pleased to hear from you.