The Clouds Come Bearing Crows

The clouds come bearing crows There is nothing cosy in Nature Death ticks round like a clock, Not for applause or thanks The illiterate buzzard grallochs the silly dove A pillow, spilling the beans All that is born turns in the falling dance Conkers roll like children, Splitting their sides, repeating This is my seventieth year beneath the sun I'm a smudge that time's erasing My appetite for power, for passion's gone All that beavering away, for justification Ever seeking a reason for being Nailing myself to the earth in meditation Perhaps it's down to the drive Beyond dream or logic or art, For procreation