Thrice, thrice, thrice, the coal-bright Crow

Baaarks – aaarks – aaarks, like a match being struck

To look for trouble.

 

            ‘Hear ye the Preacher:

            Nature to Nature

            Returns each creature.’

 

The Crow lifts a claw –

A crucifix

Of burnt matchsticks.

 

‘I am the Priest.

For my daily bread

            I nurse the dead.’

 

The monkish Crow

Ruffles his cloak

Like a burnt bible.

 

            ‘At my humble feast

            I am happy to drink

            Whatever you think.’

 

Then the Crow

Laughs through his hacker

And grows blacker.

 

from the collection ‘The Cat and the Cuckoo’