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The dark bird caws an aching creak, jarring 
high in the branches of my twisted hazel. 

Light drips thickly - like warm blood or hot metal -  
from the anvil angles of its beak, cuts short 
breeze, divides still water, and settles
deep in the silence of the little pond beneath.

It is not the tawdry light of the mind, 
where still limbs, still torso, still breath pull close -
become justified - where truth is vulnerable to age.

Nor is it the light of secret gardens, of mists 
unsettling and godless clarity eclipsing everything.

An illusive bat mapping shady new worlds 
by shriek and wail. The old owl’s careful murders.
These fears swoop in the cool of night.

But this raven comes with the light. Hopping and strutting.
Gently tip tap tapping. Its black glint encumbering
ornamental cherry trees, beech and oaks with ease. 

And it brings the white-hot light of fear. The clarity of danger.
The fat weight of doubt that lingers near.
The crack in peace. The spark of both death and change.

Listen to it as a song!

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