A February day was drawing in,
called by the light of silver birches
guarding the garden; their branches
whispering the wind to evergreens.
They spoke of times almost forgotten
when the Manor House ruled over
acres of farm and woodland, only
one house remains to tell the history,
as I watched the skies shadowed
the sun sapped, suddenly
a bird flew over alone; a cloud
that swept the sky with shapes.
The birds signalled to each other
the safe way home to roosts
murmuring, diving, flying in formation
until they descended, covering trees with
black bird-leafs hanging on silver branches.
12 February 2018
© Published issue 285 Jan 2019