grey mist heads off archaic daylight

to the thuawking spring of jackdaws
at dawn
as if only this mattered
how now they cry and try
a gormless silence battered
to a longing squawk
a cartoon-reared auk
of some council tattered
of beaks that hang fry
festooned and scattered
close-lorn
to an awkward ring of slack jaws
.
.