Closed Poem by Paul Judges

With eyes closed I still see the light
and sense everything I need to dream,
there’s still chance all will come right
- torn edges form an invisible seam;

it’s bright and quite warm for November
a palette of leaves on the ground,
feathered savages will dismember
with their undetectable sound

a blackbird flips the leaf litter
if the rain comes there will be worms,
and the overwhelming twitter
as the stabbing beak confirms

there is still life, and death is feeding
flight above the year’s decay,
at least we know where dark is leading
- eventually, to the lengthening day