My Poetry: With Broken Wing

With broken wing
the black bird waits
alone, watching
leaves turn to rust
around its nest.
‘Quick take me.
For I can no longer fly,’
it calls to death
for time is sorrow
and this morrow a chore.
But it must wait
for fate's crow to caw.

Time may yet seal
the wings' wound,
perhaps a day will come when
once again it takes to sky;
but it must wait its time
that little bird.

Until that morrow,
when the third caw sounds,
it cowers from the morning sun
in body too young
to know the timbre of being old;
but one day soon
its feathers will turn new colours,
and death will step
from its dreams, and draw close
and say, your time is NOW.