Crows at Lochranza - John G. Hall

He stutters under the weather
air tumbled and wet, a feather
fall, a fossil fern, a living coal.

He calls in the lichen skinned trees
swings down softly, rips up a heart.

He is night without stars, ink without paper,
sin without soul, miner without pit, is crow.

He can be shiny blue in his Sunday best, but
he prefers horizontal rain, toppled bins, and
the little windfalls of golden eagle chicks.

A black bearded sky pirate, a flying anarchist flag, the devil in drag,
a spit of ink from a death warrant, an iron filing pulled towards sin,

a blot on the landscape, landing mob winged, familiar with witches,
neck deep in dead lambs, crisp bags, and the shortbread of tourists.