The crow By RM JENKINS
The crow, its call cawing,
Across these ploughed fields , Autumn’s leaves falling
Swift blown and swirled through those grey skies,
Bitter sounding, echoing, haunting,
Simple, yet haunting, gnawing.
Simple-black, but beating,
Iridescent arrogance above the clouds,
Majestic but ignoring, watchful but scary,
Still, The Jack of the skies, but master of none.
Its tearing, strutting carrion-cleaning, clockwork-eyed,
Beaded blood- filled beak, Crow -spread crowed,
Above our lives, brazen-black, sinking, rolling.
October’s bell is the crow’s calling
Rising, it’s simple acrobatics, gripping and scraping,
The sky, the clouds, merciless, tearing, pecking,
Perching, swapping -gripping and hopping, imagined God but simple beast.
Lord of the skies! Indeed, with streamlined plumage,
Berry- black, reflected, refracted, with fiery eyes, wingtips and weary dawning,
So simple at first glimpse, yet then so daunting.
In its simple chaos calling.