Dead Crows

In a landscape
of perfect circles
(sheep fanks on the moor’s edge)
they beat as six black flags,
dead crows pinioned
on a wire.

Scaly jaws
clack open and leer
into the mist. Some wind
flaps their flesh and ruffles
their bones; so turn
in resurrection.

Cast down
to the earth, their eyes,
in sightless unison, forget
the sky and curse
the barbed wire’s cut.
Damp’s tears drop.

Dead nettles
in their crepe droop heads.
This autumn falls in grey
and black. On the moor
drifts of feathers speak
of some end.