winding

walking home this misty morning,

the gulls circling in the grey.

the world is still;

unwinding,

slowly winding.

 

but the crows’ ominous cry

echoes in the silence,

as they flee their entrail feast,

something foreboding;

forewarning from the trees.

 

but still i cross and still i wander,

closer now than ever was.

the world is still

and i am moving,

unwinding,

winding still.

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