Cawing In The Night Or Just More Babbling Poem by Paul Brookes

black crow building his nest twig, by twig, by twig,
each placed and replaced and replaced again
like a Sylvia Plath poem precise and playful,
desperate to be right, for approval, such balanced prose
a filtering of repetition repeating.

black crow looks with gimlet eye, like a Poe poem,
all fear for this claustrophobic entombed in dark spaces.
darker and darker and darker yet,
clawing at coffin lids with scarlet screams
bloodied nails atrophied in the dusty crypt
and nothing more.

black crow nails me to the tree
sees me eye to eye to eye.
he plucks out an orb and makes me all knowing
an Odin, but just a human like all the rest
frail and over reaching knowing nothing
seems black crow know us all too well.

black crow flies away, he is a best an audience to our folly;
he caws and caws and caws again against the black drop sky.
maybe he's just bored with our endless chattering of nothingness
which echo on and on and on again in an endless rhetorical question.
finally swooping he departs returning nevermore