He keeps the why
his black crows fly,
the where his dark nights go,
the how he’ll play
with stooks of hay
the impresario,
up threadbare sleeves
with twigs, dry leaves,
ragwort that on warm days
seeds potholed tar
cats’ eyes ill-star
for winter’s matinées.
Flat cap cock-eyed,
stick arms flung wide,
bowed to the wood’s catcalls
while traffic brings
faint from the wings
its rumours of applause,
he takes his straw
half-cocked encore,
unmoved when wet tyres sigh
at signposts missed
as, dashed, we kiss
our short cut home goodbye.
Ragtag he goes
through beech hedgerows
bobbed up as we flash past,
our mad compère
still out to scare,
stood up by his star cast.
We turn tight-lipped,
quartz headlamps dipped
foreshadowing our crawl
through sheets of rain
swished back again
for one more curtain call,
his sackcloth mask
screwed up to ask
who now among his crows
might second guess
our GPS
before its signal goes,
before they flock
to perch and mock
black capped, our worn brake shoes,
and, chance or whim,
we’re stuffed like him
whichever road we choose.
