by Mike Davenport
A sun-ghost navigates the thinning mist.
Mica crystals, pools and lochans scintillate.
A dark buttress generates two ravens,
with corax, corax, they croak their names,
sky echo of this land’s harsh corrugations.
They ride the air, read the runes of entrails, plunge
to tear at bloody innards on the remnant snow.
They rise to a rainbow, black fire against
the spectrum spread.
Ravens are named ravenous, mere scavengers,
even black sorcerers, said to lack the nobility
of eagles, purity of the Ark’s white dove.
But here, these aerial acrobats twist free
of reputations, somersault, dive, ascend
in unison. They play, become light-hearted
in their blackness.
Mike Davenport is a member of the Poetry Group