Against a silver grey
rain evening sky,
crab clawed, clinging
to a telephone line,
two ravens.

Their meeting,
not accidental, was pure
in its intent.

And oh such billing and cooing,
such passion,
such raven ravings of love.

“The crow”, I read somewhere
“does not mate for life.”
What relief!
I would not wish upon these two
routine and
the dubious joys
of baby-bird rearing.

They existed perfectly,
wholly for that evening . . .

. . . stayed half an hour and
when they had pecked
and beaked their fill of one another
flew each to their own
undomesticated
space of sky.