Crows Nerve Fails
Crow, feeling his brain slip,
Finds his every feather the fossil of a murder.
Who murdered all these?
These living dead, that root in his nerves and his blood
Till he is visibly black?
How can he fly from his feathers?
And why have they homed on him?
Is he the archive of their accusations?
Or their ghostly purpose, their pining vengeance?
Or their unforgiven prisoner?
He cannot be forgiven.
Ted Hughes
Good morning Coso, thisβll be a week.
My promise to myself is to just chill the feck out. Worry changes nothing.
Playing with the Lightroom and Photoshop upgrades. colour grading and sky replacement tools are something else.
5 minute edit.
Web working dad.
The North part of Ireland.
Walk on air against your better judgement.
Seamus Heaney