Crow Attends the Funeral

Blackvein leaves, dead of gravity, cloying 
this mound of still warm earth, brown 
as a child's stretched belly

calls Crow, black mistake aloft
on gray, victimless recently, 
fluttering mind, all mood, 

Crow crashlands clumsy caw 
winks into a dull sun,
splayfoot belly-walk black.

Strumpet canter, victory hop,
a tarred clutch of feathers,
Crow chokes on a gobbet of good fortune.

A man screams.
Crow inhales, vomits silence.

A bishop hums.
Crow makes the sign of suffering.

A poet leans graveward on a cane.
Crow thinks to beat his balls blue with it.

The crowd separates, black
backs moving like so many 8-balls,
Crow hops hops away alone

finds a long-dead bird frame,
wrenches at the meatless bones
for the practice.

For Ted Hughes, Poet Laureate 1984 to 1998.