walking home this misty morning, 

the gulls circling in the grey.

the world is still;

unwinding, 

slowly winding. 

 

but the crows’ ominous cry

echoes in the silence, 

as they flee their entrail feast,

something foreboding; 

forewarning from the trees. 

 

but still i cross and still i wander, 

closer now than i ever was. 

the world is still 

and i am moving; 

unwinding,

winding still. 

​

i see the 

world in black

and white.

these trees

and fields

edited

beneath 

winter’s heavy

coat of 

primer. 

​