Clock Tower Crow

On the flat roof of the village clock tower
he assumes his lawful place 
on a pedestal in the sky.

Perched there, all he does is nod and swivel
his svelte head, repeating his private call to prayer—
a garrulous ha-ha ha-ha.

What’s the joke?
Time itself, of which the crow
as prince of the nihilists is utterly unconcerned.

Ha-ha... ha-ha—it’s all absurd: this small-
town life with hair salon, drive-through bank, Chinese takeout,
two bars, two hardware stores, the surrounding hills

dappled with apocalyptic churches. Ha...
ha-ha... ha... ha... We know you as you are: time’s onyx wing—
wing that spares our sight the other coming darkness.

---

Peter Marcus | The Blakean Sky
Contents | Mudlark No. 55 (2014)