On Chittoe Heath
Poem By John Thorkild Ellison
The crow cries out in anger
As the senile branches scrape the sky
And past the trees a stranger
Picks his way through the dead land.
The forest broods in silence beneath the sullen clouds
And there is no comfort for the passer-by
Who does not sense the danger
That the crow sees in the secret messages
From sky and stone.
Suddenly a silver flash, and a crack of thunder
Splits the earth.
The wanderer has never felt so alone.