In pride of place on my work-surface
are an ink-well of weighted glass

and a black quill-pen, presented to me
when I left long-term employ:

a discarded life I heed less
and less, as the years pass.

But every so often with a hoarse kraaa
there squats on the sill a hoodie crow,

a gap in one wing where a primary
feather is missing. Teetering raggedly

it fixes me with a bloodshot eye
then flops, disgruntled, away.

Whether bent on repossessing
what belongs to it, or chastising

me for treating its lost quill
as simply a glossy symbol,

I see in it the beast
of conscience come home to roost.

The cat meantime sits by the fireplace,
content that nothing is amiss.