Corvus

Corvus.

The bitter voice, The hissing voice, The shadow over water, Croaked my name to eternity.

 Corvus.

The voice again.

                                Corvus.

The eyes. Pale-sky born, caught sun like orbs of ice.

Corvus.

The face. Darkening with Migration, Centuries born.

Through this darkness and depth, it came once more:

Corvus… it’s time.

My name, my time. I must carry on. Carrion.

The tunnel was dug long before - walls of root and sinew, meatless bones met new-born voles. All it needed was a man, mouse or master to use. I was never much of a man.

Alone in the tunnel. But alone, to me, wasn’t end or beginning.

It wasn’t Unkindness or treachery.

Alone was bliss— the blissful becoming of one’s own best friend.

The only friend.

Corvus.

Funny name, isn’t it? Bestowed by a stranger to his child.

Second Adam, Father mine—see me now:

crawling, my claws bleeding, bellowing.

My hands no longer brown as a child’s. But black as night.

My eyes long for ocean blue, but now hold the colour of ploughed earth.

Our soul stuck in the tunnel. Forgotten. For once we could fly - See the horizon. Sea, Its waves of heat. Shadow. Traveler.

Which way was dug first? Was the name all we had left?

Call to us!

                    Caw to us?

                                             Caw.    

• This piece of prose poetry was the inspiration for the writing of the play My Oh My Mr. Dream.