Raven

The Raven speaks,

a throat of tok-toks,

a corvid tongue warped

over dark words.

And harbinger, see,

he steals time from clocks, 

snatches storm clouds and

feasts upon the cold of hail and rain -

how they weather his cloak, and

what his black eye observes, 

he marks, a death, a night, to claim

the mystery of all that we cannot know. 

The 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 men

that he has scavenged

and is his and his alone. 

Image from pixabay.