Soon the light will be fading

and the rooks are circling

in a cawing cacophony 

of confusion

trying to understand the changes 

to their once familiar roost,

searching in vain for the water

which would explain 

the duplicity of their treetop canopy

now a mirror-less reflection.

They’re searching

for something, 


to give them a bearing,

to show them whether 

to fly up or down

which way is up

or down

in this rookery of dreams,

rootless as a dream.


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