Pennine Hills, United Kingdom
To live at this hour beneath the cold Pennines sun
requires the dead hills to flow behind us.
To see the mighty crow and not look back
means the death of something strange.
We twist and turn. Shadows drape over us –
ugly cloaks of lies that suit nobody.
We are mired in bloody hearts.
The crow comes, picks at the pieces.
I am that crow, that symbol of death.
I am the one that turns over corpses and flies away.
Copyright © 2009/2014 by Richard Mather