The Raven
High in the valley
of the Harthope Burn
In a
solitary rowan, the raven,
Guardian of
memory and thought
Mythic
messenger, summoner of souls,
Seeker of
the slain, hunter of the hanged
Sits alone,
in the wolf-months of the year
Waiting to
see which way the world will turn
Angered by
our impudent intrusion
He hauls his
black-clad body aloft
And uttering
his strident ‘pruk, pruk’ cry
Flies from rowan
to rock, rock to rowan
Criss-crossing
the steep sided valley,
As we wait to
see which way the world will turn
Beneath his
rowan roost
On grass
white as frost with droppings
We stoop to
gather the feathers he has shed
Black as the
night, black as the pit
Together, in
a place that has abandoned time
We wait to
see which way the world will turn
Now, as life
returns again to the frozen land
And the
adders stir from their winter sleep,
To slither
over the ancient graves
The raven
tumbles in his Spring flight, and
We climb once
again the remembered track,
Unsure where
our destination lies, still
Wondering which
way the world has turned
No comments:
Post a Comment