Some Crows
So little happens
that I tell you everything twice.
The crow, I swear, followed my eye
behind the door,
knew to leave me something delicate
and silver.
Another crow, a different one, I swear,
took up with its beak some chant or other,
with the words all familiar –
I knew them all, I think –
but so little happens.
This time, or the next,
another crow, or something similar,
will stand there silent with its dripping eye,
all silent, the words already having gone.
I swear, I have never told you any of this before,
but so little happens,
and I’m never able to capture
the essence of what they say,
or what they don’t,
or just how much I love
their burning silver.
Bryan Marshall is a musician by trade, used to work in the wine industry, fell into teaching, but has always been a writer. Mainly poetry, but there is that inevitable novel sitting in a drawer somewhere