Crow

Eagle, raven, crow, The wild masks, the midnight plume Of stars, spears of ice. You calculate the sun’s direction, The muse of cold, beyond a leap. Here you are, infinite, A drawing, a dream, Swallows, starlings Crack this sky. You turn to shadows, The great black primordial speaker, Formed by hunger, Brimming over in your timeless quest. Your beauty is an illusion of freedom, The nature of your being flutters— The pick and jeer of black feathers.

A birth without end, waiting for silence.

You are the heart of nature, The crest of ultimate grace.

• Ted Hughes