You dropped from long summer sky,

still holding the dark woods of old England

in your clouded eyes,

feathers scorched from dream flight round the sun.

Even in death you held the page,

taking wing in my hands,

telling me in hop and caw

what lay behind the night.

Curious by the shape of your bill,

you were born to pry and prise,

to unpick the threads of the world

and weave it afresh

from twigs you hauled in from the edges.

 

Crow, I buried you.

For seven years you were translated in the dark,

stripped pale by worm and beetle

into the lines and stretch of bone.

When I dug down after winter snow

had given way to green,

a remnant of beak sung me to your side.

I found your half cup skull

and pin thin pieces gathered wide by roots,

magic sticks left to tell the stories

still folded in your absent wings.