Crow

The crow stalked dry-stone walls

With a hopping inelegance

Portentous of crimes

Committed in its dark little life.

In the nearby air, its own carrion stank like death -

Like death should stink.

The crow wasn’t interested in us.

It kept an eloquent distance -

As if we, not it, carried a plague.

Spiders spurted over the cold walls too.

Their exquisite silence (on all the key issues)

Squashed by squat arses.

Under the creeping moss

Other spider eyes poked out

On stalks of flesh.

We rested, qua beings.

There without any artifice

To clot the landscape.

Existence washed over us.

And the clocks' covetous ticks

(In that farthest distance)

Couldn’t even be heard.

There were no answers

And no questions…

No questions worth asking.

No answers worth hearing.

Our minds unwrapped

In a thoughtlessness

Which floated easy

(With a focused lack)

On being’s still water.