Wednesday, 9 November 2011

Mister Crow

                   flies gather
                               at the dead weight of him      
                                 they touch with tenderness                (black feathers)
                    they shade the Sun's bruises
                                           they make preparation

             while the still eyes                 for all that
                     are wide open                                                   
                                    scanning the space he criss-crossed
                                                           and wrote over

                                      black pearls
                                        mirrors to fall in

                                      they fix on nothing
                                        they take it all in
         and turn to                           
                                 the bright dark
                                 the swallowed breath

                                 held before      the question
                                                            was shaped
                                                    and thrown


  1. Corvids, indeed. I've not seen a dead one but they abound hereabouts. About the dead. I see and hear a lot in your poem, though, and have shared it with some friends and family, along with the link to your blogsite. You and R. S. Thomas.