A rowan overlooks a brook,
once parched and thirsty, starved of rain.
'Though in the windy, dead of night
a heavy downfall fills again,
the bed left wanting where the flow,
for months has trickled far too slow.
Above the dampened, tangled roots,
in sturdy limbs exposed to sun
five nests of noisy, jousting crows
in mid-air clashes. 'Oh, be done'.
My neighbours, they are not polite
and much prefer to squawk and fight.
No canopy of leafy green
to hide their antics from my eyes,
as sunshine filters through the cloud
to brighten up the Sunday sky.
How loud is this community,
who've moved next door to bother me?
A murder of those wretched birds,
their din is heard for streets around.
The sound offends my fine-tuned ear,
much better that they go to ground.
The folklore of the rowan tree,
so dark that even crows should flee.