The Crows, He Said, Poem by Wild Bill Balding

would roost each night in the middle one
of the three tall trees at my garden's end,
every night the flock of crows,
every night the middle tree,

except the once,
just the once,
the only night they did not come,
the very night a German bomb
hung-up, dropped late, and hit the tree.

The crows, he said,

were back next night in the left-hand tree,
where crows have roosted sixty years,
every night the flock of crows,
every night the left-hand tree,

except tonight,
except tonight,
the only night they have not come:
awake, I watch that moonlit tree,
the gap where something used to be,
awake, I wonder -