The day offers no consolation.

The sea is fierce, waves capped white and rushing

Like nightmares they ride to the rocky shore where I stand

booted, blanketed, my black umbrella blown inside out, hair that lashes my face

a thousand whips for a thousand lies told, recanted, told.

The truth remains elusive, a death shroud; a black sheeted mirror.

It says, Here we mourn.

A murder of crows count the hours.

Their tree is barren, leafless and stark.

They carry the heavy greys of night,