Monday, 3 December 2012


In a tavern a man drinks

with the illusion

of a widow dressed in black.

She remembers,

but he still tells her

of his riches all lost

at the market,

two crows watched

from the clock.    

How he lost his way

down at the crossroads,

two crows flew

from a tree.

And the wife he lost

to sail with a merchant,

a crow calling through

the dock yard din.

For lost luck

he blamed the birds,

so to free his life of

ill fortune

he served a poisonous feast.

'Be a good woman,' he said

'and pour me another,

there's a sound from my glass

like a bird cry.'

And through his eyes

clouded with laughter,

he failed to see the widow

add a dose of

dark powder,

throw off her shawl

and fly.


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