Rip Bulkeley
Summons
Black rag tossed out on Cotswold wind,
rook, clenched to swart hand-axe
and fastened in seams of air,
holds headfast over beech
as beech holds mantling over huddled flock.
Always that sombre flap above the browns
of burning woods or furrowed plough,
as they in turn bear on
above the chalk-grey relics of all creatures,
even of Earth itself.
Stand to your stormy watch quite soon, dark friend,
to buoy the long dun slab
telling my bones lie here.
Page(s) 45
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