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.