Old River

My first time writing in a long while.

Old River:

A pine needle flakes the head of an unborn death,

A river slowly flows with wind and flight,

Rocks seeped in moss and old age bury the dead and other things,

Like the old Whaler.

Splinters, tufts of from from beaver over yonder,

The mangy dog and the cub grazing.

Most curious; the egret above our heads.

Winter plumage, proudly.

A sullen white.

Step forth, The Whaler’s in his grave.

Four times over.

The egret mewls a retched sound and lands atop the rock.

A neighbour, unneighbourly.

Rifle raised to spit.

Undead.

                              Pray tell the tale of the angel winged, for flight, the master, makes good again.

Author's Note

Would love to know your thoughts.

Reviews

[JayG]

Well, you did ask...

• A pine needle flakes the head of an unborn death,

As my son likes to say, "The story in your head never made it to the page. Assuming that you have intent for the meaning,it works...for you. But from a reader's viewpoint:

I can understand the term "unborn death" referring to a miscarriage, or cooking and eating a seed. But it having a head?

And, you never clarify; or weave a cohesive whole; or relate it to a river.

In short, it reads like something created with the help of an online poetry generator.