The Raven speaks, his corvid tongue warped
on dark words, in throaty tones and tok-toks.
He says, 'see how I am a harbinger of light,
how I snatch these storm clouds and
feast upon the cold of hail and rain.
He says, 'you notice my torn cloak,
but what my black eye observes
when I steal the time from clocks
and my thick beak claims the night -
you cannot know.'
This Raven speaks in croaking verses,
that branch and air are his to own,
and this white hill he rests on -
it holds the bones of unhappy women
he has scavenged and is his and his alone.
Image from pixabay.