Submitted by Phoebe Hamel
The seasons change, a crow calls.
I am told you are a delicacy:
A rich meat, a fine wine.
My mouth is dry.
Some of my most potent memories
Are conjured up by the crow’s call.
An empty cornfield after harvest,
High grey sky, leafless wood.
I am told you are humble:
Enough to come to a child.
That must have been you,
With me in the field.
My candle burns low now,
A tired wick in a puddle of wax.
I am told you love liberally:
Enough to come to a child who has grown.
That must be you, with me
In the light coming through the clouds,
In the movement of the wind,
In the echoes of the crow’s call.
About the Poet
Phoebe Hamel is a teacher of English as a Foreign Language currently living and working in Barcelona, Spain. Previously, her writing has appeared in NEAT Magazine, Synaesthesia Magazine, and The Grounds Journal.