The Day The Ravens Left the Tower

Caught in a flap, whistling down the wind,
Winging their way back to the tower
Ruined and crumbling by the westering fields.
Built on a whim by Victorian industry,
Rich man’s folly become nature’s wisdom.

An arch throws light onto crowing darkness,
A nest cradled in the crook of spiralling stairs
Climbing to infinity, the sky’s the limit.
From the lip of wasted stone, they will learn
To sail with the wind, to prey on the helpless.

Mother stands proud against the sunset,
Watching as father feeds below the hungry,
Insistent, waiting beaks, the edifice
Restless with loud-mouthed young.
The last evening they will ever see.

Young ones asleep, the parents settle,
Blending with the closing darkness.
Attuned to the weather, yet they cannot foretell
The manmade horror that will unseat them:
Burning, clanking machinery.

The dawn of a winter day brings death,
Sparse trees standing as silent witnesses
To the demolition of the derelict tower.
All the surrounding land bought and unsold,
Unknown to the unseen tenants.

Now the father hides in hedgerow,
Broken wing trailing.
He knows he will not last the night.
Black eyes impassive at his family’s fate,
Full of a grief he cannot understand.