Repost because the topic it was in was getting no comment whatsoever whilst a child's scrawls always seem to get a mention:

The Man and the Raven

The man watched the raven
with an eye as keen as his.
It stood majestically in the square,
robed in it's purple-black cloak.

It's beak a sunrise crown
scaled with ice,
It shuddered slightly,
the cold slipping away like
a satin veil.

He watched this king with envy,
his own fingers had died
adopting frost.
Every night they savoured the last
dying embers of a flickering midnight sun.

The raven lowered his head to the ground,
picking scraps from the stone.
The man had long wished he could do the same,
But he was a prisoner of morals
that were no longer his.

The raven caught the vagrant
with a jewelled eye.
The man wished it a way
to escape the hunger that
had caught him with
equal suprise.

And then the two scavengers left,
one with wings stirring the bitter winter air,
the other with feet like fists,
burning snow with stale anger.