The black crows wheeled about and dived,
Three harbingers of doom descending
In perfect harmony, upon the man.

I knew not why they chose this wanderer,
Just what his crime or cause of grief,
But froze in horror as they harangued him.

Their cawing clawed along my back,
Paralleling their piercing talons,
Which, rampant, ripped his suit to shreds.

Brandishing his umbrella like a bayonet,
He thrust it furiously at the fiends,
But repelling them not retreated.

Around the corner he ran in terror,
Before, when out of sight, he screamed
A sound like shrieking foxes wailing.

At last I roused myself and ran
To offer help in fending off
These beasts, but found them gone, a feather

Left lying on the floor, the only
Evidence of their existence.
And of the man? No sign remained…

I never found the missing man,
Nor saw the hellish crows once more,
Except asleep in anxious dreams,

But even now I shrink in fear,
Upon the sight of silent birds
Aloft on wing or lonely trees.

Walking to church today I saw the crows sweeping in a curve, one before the other, in a downward dive. Starting to write about the sight, this is what came out. I didn’t intend to write gothic or alliterative verse, but that’s where it took me.
(18.02.25)

© Ben Quant 2025
Photo by Stary Smok on Unsplash