by contemplativeinquiry

Dawn’s rose

Is melting an old frost moon.

Agony under agony, the quiet of dust,

And a crow talking to stony skylines.

Desolate is the crow’s puckered cry

As an old woman’s mouth

When the eyelids have finished

And the hill’s continue.

A cry


As a newborn baby’s grieving

On the steely scales.

As the dull gunshot and its after-râle

Among conifers, in rainy twilight.

Or the suddenly dropped, heavily dropped

Star of blood on the fat leaf.


Ted Hughes, in Crow: From the Life and Songs of the Crow London & Boston: Faber and Faber, 1972