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Crow of Doom


I've noticed that he lands on my roof towards the latter part of an evening.  Always when I'm thinking about turning the last lamp off and heading to my bed.  Black wings descend and bump against thatch and I know he's arrived, above me in the gloom of night. 

From the glow of a hastily lit candle I dare not move, paralysed to the stair that only leads me higher towards him.  I can't go up but I don't want to go back into the cold empty downstairs.  I begin to tread gently but in line with my step the grip and rip of claws echoes down from his height.  I stop, he stops.  I start and he begins again.   

Crawling between cold sheets I pull the duvet up beyond my head and curse the unlucky star that watched my birth and sent this crow.  He lands when I least want him to.  When strength dwindles to nothing and I forget my own name.  This crow of doom feeds on the bleak within and vultures at my thoughts. 

The night will be shadow filled and nightmare ridden.  Tomorrow will not bring a fresh dew.  I will be hounded by the crow until the full moon returns and I can breathe easier free of his weight.

- Photo by Peter Lindbergh, 'The Birds' for Vogue Italy

                     

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