The crows are high
With glossy sheen
And their oils and their potions
Rising like petrichor
Into the wind.
Great gobbets of rain
In thick lumps falling
From a lead September sky
It was warm in the south
No wonder the Swallows
Are away on their travels
But the green of this place
And the smell of the grit
In the rock of the place
Is home
#CoSopoetry