The Crow’s Account

The Sky they say, invented its own tales, Each task fading, under the threads and the selves, But shadows are just for the blaring screams. What the crow creates, no soul can writhe, Like scintiller a way back; blizzards charge Over the stars, die away in washes to cut.

With black smoke crashing across runway arms Dreams glimmer highest above the wreckage’s keep; This rain brings worry; flows of frayed feeling, Extend underneath the darkened sky where roofs fall, And high up here, where light leaves a burn, and air sighs, The alignment twirls, so that bodies forget the fall—

strong, lithe, it sweeps—holds the language of each—a song! The sky curls down and flares, while beauty rushes deep! Loose winds trouble the ground, like soulful breaths guide Through unmortal hands, frail, lifting towards the slowest tremors— And cradling the ending strange clouds break and enhance everything!

• Ted Hughes