Wren Grey

They say you shouldn't die on black ice
for if you do, there is only one way to go.

They say, black ice is like a door
to hell
the frozen pit, the final embrace
full of the spectres of your past lives
they sigh in agony and welcome you,
as one of theirs.

They say, black ice is like a window
into the abyss
the velvety darkness that captures your soul
beckons you to peek behind the veil
the fen fires make you dizzy
let you slip and crack your skull.

Black Ice

They say, black ice is like a mirror
slick and shining
reflecting the stars of the night sky,
if you only drew the curtain of snow --
but it'll bring you down in between steps
on the surface as dense and hard as concrete.

The chickens are talking
the rabbits are smoking
but the wren is still eating
because he was the last one to get off work and the others simply couldn't wait for him that long. Sorry, wren.

He chews and he munches
he feasts and he lunches
on whatever he finds
after no one else minds.

Dinner is served

In the lair of the bear
on a comfortable chair
with the fox and the hen
sits a crazy grey wren.