the secret of the crows

I would gather apples in the sun
and fling them at the crows that harm no one
because my sickness worsens by degrees
and crows wear black especially for me
but when I turn my back for all I know
their feathers flash the colours of the rainbow
I’ll catch them out one day and we shall see
all sickness then consigned to history

[first posted 15 Jan 2015]

Diagnosis

It used to stand for Department of Police,
Public Domain not private grief.

Now PD means incurable disease,
to my mind no less a crime than murder.

Not a death sentence, the neuro said,
fingering his black cap with due solemnity.
I could have cried when later on,
I saw him laughing in the café with a friend,
though his grin fell through his chin
on spotting me, so that,
if anything, I felt bad for him.

Yes, his face dropped like a murderer
through the trap, as I stood there
without guide book, without map,
unmanned, undone, uncomforted,

detached,

gazing on a city-scape of ruins.

[first posted 3 Dec 2013]