Where have the plums gone,
once heavy with purple grace?
Now the crows sit silent where they grew,
feasting on empty air.
The branches curve like empty hands,
holding only the memory of weight,
and the sweet, dark juice
that once stained the August grass.
They hunch their shoulders against the graying light,
sharp eyes tracking the ghost of sweetness,
their glossy feathers slick with dampness
as they shift on knobby, wooden perches.
Occasionally, a sudden, ragged caw breaks the quiet,
a harsh demand sent into the barren trees,
before they settle back into a watchful stillness,
guarding a harvest that has long since vanished.
Then, with a collective, sudden rustle,
the stillness snaps.
They push off from the brittle wood,
unfurling dynamic wings of midnight satin.
They heavy the air with a rhythmic thrum,
rising like a scattered cloud of soot
torn from the hearth of the orchard,
blotting out the pale, fading sky.
They wheel and scatter in chaotic harmony,
leaving the branches trembling in their wake,
their parting cries trailing downward
like ash settling over the empty grove.
Summer has folded its bright tents,
leaving nothing but this quiet orchard,
where the wind searches the branches
for secrets they no longer keep.
Hoi hoi @ A
Fine write!
And the artwork is out of this world!
Love it a whole lot!
Keep ‘em coming please.
Kind regards, Gus
Thank you, Gus.