What had the raven to tell me? Was it good, was it bad, was it something I already knew all along?
Image by oddsock via Flickr
The old raven
on the fence post
was watching me careful
or suspicious to say the most.
The land of my fathers
sprang right to my mind
and there are no others
of this friendly kind.
Lush and wide oak trees
amongst ferns shady lines,
light interrupted by branches
and fingered leaves in the light.
The raven is nodding,
he’s seen this place too,
he came from that letting,
from the place where I grew.
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