Crows own Ireland,
black exclamation marks
against these verdant hills
impossible to ignore.
The speak in squawks,
caws, gurgles, trills, clicks
inserting meaning, much
as we do, with pause,
exclamation, whisper and shout.
At dawn and dusk
their rookeries resound
with tales of daylight doings,
small wonder the Irish
learnt to tell a tale well.
Crows predate the gods we know,
spring from much more ancient roots.
Long since sated on vanished mysteries
and forgotten wisdoms, they witnessed
humankind’s beginning. Our superstitious awe
is not unfounded. no surprise they
trouble dreams, infiltrate poetry,
shoot shivers down the spine.
Their unhurried flights,
shuttling back and forth
between past and future,
Middle Earth and Faerie,
stitch myth and history
onto this green, green present.
©Christine Irving 2016, Sitting on the Hag Seat: A Celtic Knot of Poems
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