Blossom in the dark short days-
A frightful thing, a poisoned month.
Crow sits blackly silent on a rain-blacked branch
Sentinel to the end of things.
At the unheard signal
He flaps through drizzle-dense air,
Fades into the grey of death of day.
Gone-over Christmas lights blink ersatz cheer
Into exhausted, exhaust-filled dusk.
Glitter and plastic limbs of cast-off toys adorn
The scum awash on toxin-laced waves
That lap a broken shore.