Crow’s Theology

I Crow flew over the treetops, Flesh meat sticking to the tree. He plucked at some acrid fruit. Below in undergrowth lurking,

{Look!} His wings were always incident, The crest on frozen evening. Torn in branches (and wreathing) again, The frozen blooms burst in silence, Girths investing without names.

II He floundered through the rain of black, Slanting back, panting, Finish this arrival, lost. With eyes washed thin, That seek some safety shunning sill, Upraised as an island lost.

III For every murder must not echo. The bark of oak and maple Spit dark, crackling ambiances. Nothing becomes a resurrection.

• Ted Hughes