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previously published in Ambit, 179,
2004
in collection The Glittering Sea,
Hearing Eye Press, 2006,
Crow
Crow
in my mother’s garden.
She feeds you all her stale
bread.
Crow crow
plunging down from the neighbour’s
chimney,
leaving nothing for blackbird and
robin.
Crow crow,
the thrushes will have a grand
party
when you are on the wing.
Perched on your lookout post
or dipping crusts in the little
pond.
Crafty old thing.
Portentous stare and weighty
walk,
not all dark suits are criminals
but you wear black and look
louche,
with grey tail feathers
as if that black were singed to
ash.
You could be the taxman just dropping
by
to advise me on outstanding
payments.
Loan shark, undertaker, stand-up
comic
masquerading as a bird.
Crow crow,
my mother fed you all she had,
her skinny arms
tossing leftovers of Waitrose’s cardboard
dinners.
Best readymade food in town
And nothing less will do
as you waddle across the lawn
the gardener shaved for you.
Crow crow,
one day she fed you a whole packet of
puff-pastry,
muttering under her breath,
“one bird less won’t do any
harm”.
Crow crow,
did it swell and swell inside
you?
One day you’ll just fall out of the
sky.
No wings then will help you fly.
And blackbird, robin and thrush will fly back
in
and warble and
crow and sing.
Donald
Gardner
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