If you truly believe that the heart and soul
has been stolen from this place, its blood
and soil drained away and sold off along
with its history, its understated magic,
then wake up properly, fully, tonight,
as the Earth takes the first of many slow,
measured winter breaths, and hear
the torn-out notes of hunting owls,
roosting pheasants. Whisper of leaves.
The feathered percussion of rain brushing
over the rooftops. Listen – if you still can –
beyond your own noise. Think again.
About the Poet
Robert Ford’s poetry has appeared in print and online publications including Under the Radar, Brittle Star, Dime Show Review, The Interpreter’s House and San Pedro River Review. More of his work can be found at https://wezzlehead.wordpress.com/
For the first time in nearly five years, Vita Brevis is closed for submission. Read the full story here.
Vita Brevis Press. 
Fabulous. I especially like these ending lines,
The feathered percussion of rain brushing
over the rooftops. Listen – if you still can –
beyond your own noise. Think again.