27th November 2020
An Autumn’s end day so bright and quiet,
The sea close under the slackwater point gleams plateglass smooth
While sparse clouds above the bay float as immobile
As the anchored ships neighbouring their shadows far indigo below.
The swell-stilled water where I can careful down
Across wavesculpt strata
To greet it under lukewarm sun
Barely crinkles to pond ripples above near-Caribbean clarity:
Irresistible beckon!
…
There is something so air-caressing
About the makeshape of crows’ slow wingbeats–
Or even the fast, I reflect,
When they duskwards home as hoarsethroat skyblack inkjets.
As quite often, I wonder to the noses of corvids:
If every animal action has its sober reason,
Why do these avian landlords
So often pathfind across the sea–
Even on days parlous with isobars,
Arrowed as Agincourt by storm-barbed fronts?
Of course I understand that, clear-skied over open water,
They avoid much risk of aerial ambush;
But isn’t such a strategy
The need of much smaller birds?
For which of the British fliers, raven apart,
Would brave a try against one Carrion, never mind a murder?
Perhaps crows find that out there
Where the wind blows cleaner, far less eddied,
They can much easier
Discern the scents of land,
Triangulate the sources
Of sustenance they favour.
© Christopher Jessop 2020
