Poetry Thursday. From a Random Prompt

This week, Poetry Thursday is inviting humourous poems, but as Limericks are banned, and I am a Limerick-woman (I mean it, really! Literally! Limerick is my home-town, the city made famous by Frank McCourt of Angela's Ashes, and before him, by the 5-line jingling sillinesses of those rhymes) - in protest, I'm not posting anything funny. (Real truth - asking me to be funny is the kiss of death. I knew as soon as I saw that prompt that it wouldn't work for me. I'll probably turn out something funny the week the prompt is "Funeral")

So, in the absence of anything funny, amusing or even mildly humourous to post, I will post the poem that was "cooking" last week in response to a word offered by the Random Prompt Generator. The word is Flock, and I've taken a traditional approach by allowing that to be the title of the poem. Here it is:

Flock

This is evening:
Into the sycamores they tumble
from the skies above Downings.

They wheel and tack,
then fall to settle
in noisy clacking groups.

Some twirl like smuts in the air,
black smudges with no direction,
but a feel for home.

The rooks claim the trees,
shake sunset’s golden spangles out,
spread like a heavy flock blanket,
before night finally falls.
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More Poetry Thursday poems will be found HERE. There should be some chuckles there. But no Limericks. I mean nothing that reads like:

In defense of her own native city,
She proclaimed 'It's a terrible pity
that my rhymes should be banned,
quite out of hand.
I think that that rule is quite......
mean'

[Only joking, Liz & Dana! Sorry, but I couldn't resist!]