the screaming trees

I have only realised now how much
harder a woman has to fight for certainty
of her place
she may build her fine towers with intricate skill
but she has still to tackle
the man-made wall ahead of her

how her voice may be muted
so swift and with practiced efficiency
I was convinced by the messages sent
in the 90s of a new time arriving
separating away from what had gone before
where a woman could Be
what she is in her genuine form

without shame
without trickery
without bindings
without lines given to her to be spoken
as though they were her own

but I understand there are still
the same hindrances
being woven into the minds
of women at the stage of their forming

the same booby traps and banana peels
that were given to me and my generation
a tricky set of foolish beliefs
of what is
and what is not allowed

to go to a favoured man
to tell him what she has done
only to be dashed
at the base
questioning what she had to be so proud of

morning
and two crows chat on the field
listening carefully to eachother
and nodding in agreement
I stand on the edge
of crow world
where crows deftly bustle about their business
with a confidence of knowing who they are.
a confidence of self.
crow-self
crow
the meat eater
the tool user
the plan maker
the bolshy creature
the strong beaked
the loud mouthed
the watcher
the messy home maker
the communicator

from his skeletal perch
storm crow watches the stars fall.
he has seen this before, and knows
he will see it again

he sees patterns as they fall
he sees them weave together in the wind
like flocks of birds
before binding silently
to become part of the whole

his body becomes a bold silhouette