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’