It’s time to muster in the churchyard
and we gather, strutting and flapping,
a bedraggled conclave
absorbing colour from the looming clouds.
We’re an untidy gang of opportunists
scavenging under weed and moss
with our pewter beaks, flicking gravel
and disrespecting the buried departed.
Self-absorbed, we hop about
amongst weathered granite memorials,
incised marble slabs and faded flowers,
focusing on our staccato stabs and jabs.
As the funeral cortège approaches,
we lift as one into the breeze
on broken, squawking notes of discord:
dark calligraphy against a lowering sky.
