c. 2015, re-written July 2020

The jackdaws have increased by hundreds, while the crows remain.

The sky is grey and consuming; I glimpse spectres within its alluring shrouds,

As though this bleak room between engulfing sky and mud

That I entered as a child

Takes now the shape of my exit.

All the denying sun I tried to espouse

Has sunk into weak embers on grey ash, beyond the Welsh hills.

The fleeting stench of fox implies a putrid night.