Cacophony of grey twigs,
their splotches, lichen on the smoother bark,
their music in the breeze, a rattle, clap.

Bones long gone respond in graves close by,
and moose stop munching tips of trees,
to hear, to see, to smell.

Danger flings its fearful cloak about,
his mighty dark cloud canopy,
all cats go scatty dancing a devil's dance,

A glint of madness in their eye.
The fly and ant take refuge in their holes or heaps,
a metre down they're safe from any harm.*

The human animals clothed in oilskin coats,
go out to sea in tiny barks,
while thrown from wave to wave, they fish.

So brave in furious storms that blow the spume up high,
to meet the low descended sky above,
the seagulls glide and dip their fairground joy, on wings like albatross.

An eerie distance hides a mystery of things we cannot see,
so black the hour has turned, this driving mass of mist,
and pouring rain on this day called monday.