The Fourth Craw

‘wasnae there at a’

Too much is said about night –
its fullness jug-heavy with distance
poured out into star-mapped flight.

But in the sky, protecting her addled head,
was a strange sense of grounding –
as if light were solid, for standing.

And from these things –
sparks in the high darkness
a smouldering moon –
came music, the raven’s song.

Its sound could wither the feathers of eagles
make fire from ice
play tricks with existence
changing form at a whim.

In the dim-lit great hall of glittering stories
the broken shine of the moon crackles.