Crows

I.   Cityscape

From under my sloping ceiling
there's a view of old, red-tiled roofs
that must be the terror of any
self-respecting civil servant:
planning permission must have been
evaded, systematically, ceaselessly –
dormer windows and the marvellous rhythm
of haphazard squares and oblongs,
the horizontals broken by the
upright severity of crumbling chimneys
and an occasional spire standing guard,
strong, old and venerable. A shabby crow
achieves an unsteady landing on
the ridge of a roof nearby, its cackling laugh
in insolent defiance of our
building regulations and aesthetics –
a direct urge, loud, triumphant cry.

II.   Prospects

It takes some nerve to climb the city wall
And watch the coming onslaught. Down below
It's easy to pretend one doesn't know
Disaster is approaching. The soft fall
Of hesitating feet sounds like before;
The monks say mass. Inside the dim, high choir
One can't conceive the plain to be on fire
Or think we soon won't be there any more –
I lean upon the parapet. Behind
The shelter of some trees there's guns, and men
Work feverishly on the pact they signed
To subjugate the city and to bind –
Above them there's foul carrion crows, but then
Compared to us they almost seem refined.

III.   Beggars' banquet

The crows have settled on the walls, the branches
of the scant trees, the roofs – between
the yellow stubble of last year's crop
the furrows lie white under a thin
sheet of snow. The fields seem peaceful
   enough –
a dead man wouldn't know
the difference. The crows are waiting
for their spoils, patiently, curiously –
their baleful eyes stare cynically at
our dance macabre. They do not mind
the sounds, the smells; an older and
a wiser breed, they sit unruffled,
just so many beggars waiting at the door in
full awareness of the festive preparations
   within.
The abbey bells are silenced. Still,
the booming continues long after,
drowning most screams until the guns
stop arguing. The chorus on the roofs
takes over, in a parody of our negotiations,
   then falls to.

IV.  Aftermath

I have come down to walk the stifling streets
Traverse the alleys and the empty squares
And cross the wide, deserted thoroughfares
In search of people. Silence. No one greets
Me from the doors of shops or the retreats
Of educated people; no one stares
Out from behind their curtains, no one bares
Her breasts to court my custom. Time defeats
What little hope I still had left: the war,
That came and faded like a flourish, went
Its senseless way but left the town no more
Than a grim monument on can't ignore.
I hear a croaking sound. The sky is rent:
The crows mock mankind as away they soar.