Ravens on a high wire, glimmer of sun through mist, my hand cold against the glass.
Summer a distant memory, days grow short and blur together.
Plates of bright metal undulate loudly not so far away, protruding beneath a towering white needle – a Goliath,
Both equally awkward and out of place among dull concrete dwarfs of uniform height.
The rooftops are a mishmash of multi-brown tiles rimmed in bright green moss that thrives under the now wet sky.
Would that I could fly like the ravens, dark and stealth, feeding on carrion their actions are darker still,
Dark as my thoughts in winter I would dare,
To light a fire and warm my bones, yet still I remain cold to the touch.
Sleep is not forthcoming even as the city lights twinkle and die down, one and then another.
The ravens they remain – I can sense them now more than ever, their darkness carry-on in my dreams
I am afraid.