In pride of place on my work-surface
are an ink-well of weighted glass
and a black quill-pen, presented to me
when I left long-term employ:
a discarded life I heed less
and less, as the years pass.
But every so often with a hoarse kraaa
there squats on the sill a hoodie crow,
a gap in one wing where a primary
feather is missing. Teetering raggedly
it fixes me with a bloodshot eye
then flops, disgruntled, away.
Whether bent on repossessing
what belongs to it, or chastising
me for treating its lost quill
as simply a glossy symbol,
I see in it the beast
of conscience come home to roost.
The cat meantime sits by the fireplace,
content that nothing is amiss.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem