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Hearken to the whisper
Three-hundred feathers — falling
From inside the reminiscer;

Going down.

Amongst the heather
Where purple cushioned silver
O’er the broad landscaping vista.

As their wings fell like a kite.

Now the white’s amongst the heather
And the bright’s brought down to nether
They were flying home for winter.

But that winter lasts forever
In the hearts of those left never
By those last words spoke together.

Three-hundred feathers falling
O’er the town, the brae, the valley
Evermore each mourning’s tally..

Brings; three-hundred, fore — each night.

© poormansdreams

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