Jessamine O Connor
Eventually the crows stop building brittle knitted towers
in the chimney, and I miss them.
I miss their dawn scratchings, the feel of their feet
on the slates of my head, the crack
of tumbling bolts and glass on the apex roof,
and the raucous chat, roaring
down our megaphonic chimney-stack.
I miss their eternal silhouette standing guard on the pot,
on the house, over me, underneath, dislodging their foundations,
whispering up our secret.