Become Crow

Bury the crow athe edge of the field
for a cycle of seasons
let the earth do it's work
let the unseen, unloved, crawling, slithering, things
turn energy to energy
flesh to compost
feathers to fertiliser

Let the unspoken, stinking, darkness
strip bare the workings
of an intricate cog in this  sacred wounded machine

follow the thread round
let your hands, your eyes, your nose, your mouth, your ears
your languageless other edge
notice themselves
through the bonfire air
the first frost
the second frost
fireside and cocoa days
the feasting, grieving midwinter
the still, dead, sadness, of snow

 returning green
 reverberation of bees
 ache of thunder
 high slow blue heat
 taste of blackberry's
 the twist and itch towards autumn
 to the place in the weave where the thinning happens

Meanwhile
strip down your own bones
of things they no longer need