Crow
 
Crow-black,
Pepper of sky's grey eye,
Making water in the wet-wild land.
 
Can you hear
The grinding of his wings
As he sprinkles the plate
Of this brown and mud-hung earth?
 
His voice,
Grist to the mill,
Sharp seasoning to spice
Our salad days,
 
He, derided for his colour,
His dressing of night.
Hearken to him!
His commonness
A rare condiment
Too much ignored in
The winter of our bland content.
 
First Published, When I Come To The Dark Country,
Abbotsford Publishing 1998