Corvidae

poem

Iris Shaw

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Said the crow to his lady:

I will make you a seat

of stones, all amid

the ruins of November

and bring you the fruit,

bitter and soft,

which grows in the eyes

of things that remember.

She made him no answer

till his voice returned

by the night and north winds;

How like you, she then cried,

to flatter and promise

as lord of the earth

till the blind sun, staring

devoured the sky.

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