48

Crows come up off the roofing
Like torn black rags
Catching on the wind,
Their wings batting crookedly
And they keel and sidle about
The gusts like rags
Dyed black in buckets
And strung along the air drying
The roofing tin burnished brown
And the tea-coloured
Atmosphere of dusk
As the silhouettes tumble upward
Bringing brown to brown in concert
Of a deep speech,
A tousled colloquy
Of air and feather and vinegar
Light on rust and bare metals
And the sky seeming
To tarnish slowly
As copper; sulphates, breaking over
The slow light in a blue attrition,
Whorl out the day.