Poetic Offshoots from the Scottish Jungle
So I mistook
the dead, broken-winged crow
for a skeletal black umbrella.
Lying there as nobody’s litter
it meant nothing-
but as I passed, a rumbling fear
collected me and the thought of the bird
wouldn’t let me go.
It probably dropped mid-flight,
to the slate-grey shiny road
and lay gutterside to avoid the cars,
waiting to present itself
as an intimation of mortality
for the next unsuspecting goon.