The Sureness Of Uncertainty Is Certain Poem by Paul Brookes

Days perch on branches like so many crows calling the dawn
each like a new foot print on unscarred snow awaiting the writing
white parchment of thoughts that stray unburdened
or unborn stories yet to unfurl like new raised flags
that flutter on uncaring winds or lie flat inanimate.

a fox slinks across the lawn furtively to explore trash cans
sniffing out the new day and its intentions
but he, like me, knows nothing of the future
our eyes are on the mundane such as rumbling stomachs
to scavenge breakfast of cold pizza from the box,
or reheating yesterdays cold coffee pot.

the crows still hang on branches like so many hunched black monks
ready to call sleepers to Matins with husky caws
at the turning of the orb.