She leans against the heavy oak,

legs folded, poetry book in hand,

sipping red Mediterranean wine

they hear her laughs in playful smiles

feeling romantic thoughts brushed

by warm Spanish paintings of wild horses

and Andalusian gypsies

how the moments pass for corvids,

intoxicated by dark-haired dreams.

it is past time they return,

the fancy of ravens feathers flutter

back once more to western shores,

and to the throne of their master

cawing whispers, fulfilling fantasies

into ears of the Northman as he slumbers

Raven Wings


In the numb and vernal evening

past the sirens of steel banshees

and tired saints wailing in the night

cities; locked down and nervous

lie still, abandoned to silence

long before the screens

and open windows shut them in

a drunken-old-sod succumbs

to armchair-idle dreams

his thought and memory drift

on calm corvid wings

old feathers falling to ashes

blood feathers stretching

like sharpened compass arrows

pointing toward tomorrow’s sun


Gliding over vast distances

past the calm of an ocean sunrise,

beyond slumbering mountains

and passive foothills,

to where the Black Sea’s brackish mists

succumb to the glimmer

of a dust-petal dawn

taking a moment’s respite

the weary ravens’ rest

upon the thick-muscled branch

of a granite oak

below, upon a woollen blanket

of imagination stretched

in the comfortable shade

a woman whispers from soft lips

© Christopher Raine