Whatever Falls Poem by Paul Brookes

A tangle of feather thoughts float by.
gun metal grey battle scarred skies now wind shredded speedily scatter.
Crow brings no wise messages, he is silent, although he spears
me, sharp beaked and gimlet eyed brazenly quizzical.

thinking older would, a hopeless thought I now realise,
make wisdom shine from this grey dome
but the 12 year old still wants to play the 30 year old to dance
the whole still a romantic at heart.

all the ages struggle as they rock and roll crying for attention.
never growing up, not really, just suppressing the better parts,
pretending to understand life, that's a joke,
in fact we never understand most things

Crow looks like he's about to speak but is gone as quickly as he arrived
taking all the bitterness away in his beak leaving me to face another day.