It's Still Life

A Cadralor for the Oracle

I.
There’s a crow on the roof ridge,
struts across it as if it’s the world,
bends its wings, scolds, clamours,
swears an ocean of words from its
dark battalions of creamy clouds.

II.
Petulant weather. Raining as if
spitting upwards by the dead.
Splashing against the window,
a drummed blur of silver fingers
that change tunes in whispers.

III.
Listen—a train—rushes in a panic,
headlong into a tunnel, a whistling
blur like a wildly macabre ghost.
It moves into a shrouded mist
as if an exorcist in a reverie.

IV.
She holds a space—she’s neutral,
a mirror reflection. Balance.
Veiled, and she runs shrieking,
dragging the rain behind her.
I heard the sound of silver again.

V.
She searches in her wounds,
loves man and bird and beast,
loves both great and small, but
falters like the Ancient Mariner.
And there’s a crow on the roof.