Hooded Crow (Revis) Poem by jim hogg

I

I thought sometimes that he was gone,
and lost for good beneath the sod,
but yesterday I saw him stop
beside the border fence we built,

above Cairngaan, on Slewmag hill.
His hazel eyes flashed in the sun,
and on his arm, his twelve-bore gun.
'I'm heading for the glen' he said,

where many times I used to think
he planned someday to shoot himself
because of sorrow or of guilt
for all the myths he spun for us


and one by one shot down for us.
And later, from the Berrick's Brig
we stalked thon famous hooded crow,
so sly and swift out of the nest

that all around it light would bend
and time itself would almost stall
for that dark bird that knew him well
(at least as well as I did then)

until a dry and dusty cloud
soon rose around its sudden end.
And sepia blood went trickling down
the sepia burn to Portankil


where he was in his little ship
and hauling creels there on his own-
as I would too, much later on -
upon yon narrow strip of ground

that leads towards the Creechan shore,
where proudly, I first earned a wage
well over fifty years ago
amongst the hallowed wrack and stones

that hold a thousand ghosts or more,
and multitude of scents and sounds,
all joined within the stack of time.
And up and down all day they crowd


the sun-bleached strands that lead
down from the edge of Creechan's fields
towards the isles and underneath
the broken days and broken waves.

My father's there amongst them now,
not bound by turf on some cold hill,
his work-worn hands still reaching for
the lost of old, the lost to come.

And I will dive, and I will swoop
both low and high and glorious:
I once had dreams of such, I know,
but when the silence deigns to choose


imagine me on Cairngaan's crest
still driving posts with yon big mel
or in the swell at Crammag Head
and working creels by hand alone;

then down the glen from Berrick's brig
by gloamin's light or at the dawn;
don't look for me too soon I ask
but when you must, just take it slow

and see me down off Portankil
with my first brother long ago,
when Robbie's hair was black as coal
and we were bound for Creechan's shore.


II


Or better still, remember this
that I'd prefer to go unknown
down any glen, to any sea
defined for good by all my flaws -

if life must be defined at all -
or must we bow to vanity
and always find an angle which
rewards us with our own applause

Or misbegotten urge to judge?
As if there ever was a choice!
The nest, the rise, the flight, the night,
and all we crave, just vanishes;


And all the wings that carry us,
the ancient and the everyday,
weave stealthily the myths we need,
concealed within the longest game

We know the play, but can't concede
the nature of the beast we are -
the ghost within our own machine -
the wasp, the dove, the razor's scar

The flame that saves, the ash delayed
the hooded crow, the little ship
the egg that dreams, the night that waits,
the semblance of a thinking thing,


seduced by pride at every turn
and somehow yet, these memories,
these cherished moments lifted by
the whispered breeze of harmony

Or near enough relation that
it strikes a chord, but can't undo
the bloody end, the flight unflown,
ironic smiles, the time that flew

'so sly and swift' it slipped away
and left us aching images
of wonder turned from will to was
and darkest black to sudden grey


This version 030317