The Call
- Crone
- Nov 17, 2022
- 1 min read
Twilight in the city.
A crow, haloed by streetlamps, flaps past,
as I seek the shadowed side of the moon
behind the side-plate sized leaves of London's plane trees
Bright eye tuned into me, the crow rises,
swims the air, lands
on a no parking sign.
I walk on,
between workers hunched against rain,
following their screens down slick shined pavements.
The crow above me is watching and waiting.
As I reach him, he lifts into the night,
crosses the traffic, alights
just opposite,
a beckoning pose: this is the way,
his posture says,
down this dark passage.
But I walk on, to Chancery Lane.
A meeting, a drink and then...
it's over.
What did I miss, what mysterious mission
did I fail to accomplish?
What might I have found had I heeded that call?
Brilliant poem - the imagery & details, the wordsmithery (yes I know, I think I made up that word ;-) , the narrative and the speaker's reflective tone with regret -- and we're left to wonder how much regret. The poem is a Wowzer !!