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Crows at the Hill
Gadding the nadir of Langley Hill
A triad of crows cut from their gallows
A poplar or two, I saw
Omen upon the ice coated grass
A bowlfull of bodefull shadows
That dance lament over paving that
Dare me to pass into dazing, I,
Unlikely sheep who pauses in step
And wonders aloud and silently prays
As the carcass' unfold into a sword of Damacles
From spiraling tendrils of entanglement over pure
Cross pontoon a feat of disbelief, it drills
Beneath my layers, only core and seed
Doest the superstition spring from, and it is
Spring when swifter than air such birds
Do hover in ululation boundless A flying,
but as ever the winds freeze
Defies her sweet howlings, these birds into the earth,
A haled tow, are dying.
