Poem Hunter
TR Thomas Rickarby (27/03/1986 / Liverpool)


The swarm of crows that pecked at his eyes, his heart
his throat
were attracted there, like to like.
They gathered.
The crowd, the black storm. He caught and held each
one by one, breaking their necks with a wonderful snap.
Though each he killed spawned a thousand more -
each rumpled feather an inky embryo
that shook free and germinated
in its mothers blood
Myths weaved and reweaved
the population flourished
and Hughes, the great ecologist
had not enough time
to record them all.

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Comments (1)

Praise to the Poet. I don't know how to make the praise stop sounding monotonous.