A Crow

A Crow, black and derelict, Sat beside the ruined stone, Gazing out with a mournful eye Where the sunset, bruised, had flown.

There in all its tedious glory It wheezed and mocked the barren woods, Its trenchant cries cutting the silence, It sang in reckless brooding moods.

It wrapped around its desolation Like a shroud of starless skies; Each beat of its beak was agony, And gnashed against the silent cries.

The broad-winged shadows clashing Against the drumming remnant’s call, Carving through the solitary air Witnessed nothing but the fall.

With wings brought low by the stillness, The cawing wreck raised in flight, And carried by the reckless whirlwinds It vanished into the night.

• Ted Hughes