A bellow comes from the distance.
I can’t make it out, a slow beat 
no end, humming, now drowning out
the cackle of crows I walk with
singing for a dinner by death.
The birds of blood hold their hover 
running rings around rings, something  
has pinned the sun still, to a point 
hanging from a spot it can’t break. 
Our boots find wet woodland that
by day is joy, by night that grows
to be void of love or any other shade 
than mud, no escape was, is, here.
But a man alone throws bread to
a corner of the river where a swan 
white as fire, guides for a feast  
and fill away from the cracks that;
echo between the plump bushes, 
from snaps that whip from hills, holly 
silenced like a child’s call for food
falling unanswered … as the moon 
hoists up to begin the coming night