An Older Century

It’s crow-settle time,

The hour rooks return

To roost below the fire-red skies.

… and even the most earnest appeal,

From the most virgin lips

Will mean only the

Dark half of nothing to the

Man with hooded magpie eyes

In the witch-finder hat.

He’s changed the frames again

And now walks the pixie-haunted forests

Of an older century.

 

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