Copyright is held by the author.
A whirlwind of black carrion birds
fans into the sky above her,
dark streaks against the salt &
Pepper clouds that threaten to cry.
Her head hangs so low from wilted shoulders
that her pack, still with that shop window sheen,
has become the tallest part of her.
In the days last light she lurches forwards
as if to ring the bells of Notre-Dame.
But when the sky keeps its promise,
sobbing fat tears onto her cheeks,
she stops her tired stagger.
A smile blooms on her lifted face and
her laugh, like the peal of Emmanuel,
accompanies the patter of rain.
For a moment her crow halo flickers
then she shrugs herself, hunches down further
and her trudge, that black feathered parade,