Rook Poem by James Harpur

From A Vision of Comets


Too high for any flood

In a tree both bare and black

A nest is lodged in a fork,

Growing daily though squalls shake

Each branch and batter the rook

Who flaps with tardy strokes

Back to his hide-out

Bristling like a stook.

He topples down groundwards

Till all his feathers flock

Upstream then slot in like slates.

The pumice-pale beak starts to poke

Away leaves, stilettoes the turf

Then swaggering, braggadocio, he croaks

Out gall from the pit of his craw

And listening keenly as a crook

Gathers his Sicilian shawl

Plucks a twig, mounts and rocks

The breeze until he drops

Down into his secret nook,

Ready at once to carry on the work,

Incessant work, kept in the dark,

As when Noah, scenting the future,

Built his ark.