Where the Raven Died

Where the Raven Died

At the edge of Blackthorn Wood,

where daylight feared to stay,

stood an ancient twisted oak

that kept the night at bay.

Upon its broken branches

a lonely raven cried,

until one bitter winter’s eve…

the raven slowly died.

The forest held its breath that night,

the wind refused to blow.

Even rivers seemed uncertain

which direction they should flow.

Foxes never crossed that hill,

owls forgot their song,

as though the world itself had known

something had gone wrong.

They buried not the raven there,

for no one dared come close.

Instead the leaves became its grave,

wrapped gently by the ghosts.

Spring returned with flowers bright,

yet nothing ever grew

beneath the ancient withered tree

where black feathers once flew.

Some swear on quiet evenings,

when dusk begins to fall,

they hear wings that no longer beat

still answering nature’s call.

Not with cries of sadness,

nor songs of endless pain,

but whispers carried on the wind

that echo once again.

For every ending leaves behind

a feather in the soul.

And every life, no matter small,

helps make another whole.

So if you find one jet-black feather

resting by your side,

remember where the silence lives…

where the raven died.

🌹 If my words have touched your heart, and you’ve enjoyed my poetry, a small goodwill gesture would be deeply appreciated. Your kindness helps me continue doing what I love. Thank you for reading. 🌹