Poetry Corner: Rooks at Stonegate Station
BEN FAIRLIGHT
A jolt, a dull clatter, and doors suck open
Raucous caws with cold-fronted air honed
High in the thin trees, where nine black frazzles
Squabble over six twiggy raggle-bags.
They’re not discussing the length of this year’s
Catkins or wriggling lambs’ tails reflected
In marshy waters and promises of frog
Spawn in time for their raw hatchlings’
Breakfast. Or the weather. Or, like, the train
Full of, like, thumb-gossiping youngsters’ fine
Appreciation of the black in the blue.
Maybe, like me and you, they’re deaf and blind
To what’s happening now. Or worse, they’re cursed
To never know. The next station will be Wadhurst.
We hope you have enjoyed reading this article. The future of our volunteer led, non-profit publication would be far more secure with the aid of a small donation. You can also support local journalism by becoming a friend of HIP. It only takes a minute and we would be very grateful.
Leave a Reply