The composer settles his sheets of rushed notes-
And retires for tonight. Somewhere he hears a play
Of guttural primeval words
That lacks the pretence of civilisation
And is proud in its savage teeth and savage claw.
Content in the weight of solid flesh and solid bone
The curtain draws. A head is held high
Like a proud horse that rears and neighs
And pours out raw breath and thunderous September frost.
A dull string stirs and quivers among the clouds
A shudder of muscle and living tendon as it pulls
Taut. Then out breaks the absent-minded dance
Of volts. Amperes. Currents. Mad in their leap across the grey sky
Blue and purple velvets streak across this stage
In a rush to be born and die. And be born again.
Amidst them a soliloquy. Of a lone bird that sings
To the airy heavens. A soft breath that is heard
Flies, and is then no more.
Then as quickly as it began-
The last note is played. The curtain falls.
And the raindrops stop.
YOU ARE READING
The Murder of Crows
PoetryThe Murder of Crows is a collection of experimental poems I've written. Most of them are written as a way of relaxing, ironically, from the stress and pressure of exams and studying. I hope you enjoy them. They are poems, and therefore their only re...
