Rooks in the Big Chill – A poem


Every copywriter deserves a decent lunch break. Mine often consists of a brisk walk to get the creative juices flowing and iron out stiff shoulders.

Having just fed a packet of nuts to the tame rooks who habitually perch on a spade handle outside our local hardware store, I thought I’d dig out a poem from last winter. Here goes.

Poem – Rooks in the big chill

The rooks wait for the lights to change, looking right, then left, then right again as snowflakes fall on their glossy blue-black backs and cars crawl past shovelling slush tsunamis to and fro.
When the green man flashes the rooks stroll over the iced Zebra crossing in a gang, grinning, then turn around and do it again as tired drivers, exhausts thrumming steam, watch and smile.
The rooks high up on the street lights wait for fast cars then dive into the vortex, whirling up the road caught in the frigid slipstream flurry, cawing raucously, hurtling, chopping the air into chunks and tatters at forty miles an hour.
Game over, the rooks in the tree grip frozen branches stolidly facing north into the gale with beaks clenched and feathers fluffed up fat against the big chill, cawing as the watery sun sets and the glassy pavements freeze.
 

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