HECATE

By Peter Kay

Unmistakably a crow,

dark wingbeat,

all portent and doom,

hope riven out of the day,

forcing studied reflections

on a journey towards yielded

pleasure. Dusk now, too late to turn,

Whittington awestruck by fool’s gold,

must I walk to the bottom of

a dead end to know it’s a dead end.

At nightfall I stand with Hecate,

trust your instincts, and I generally did,

so why now am I lost, leaden limbed.

I trace your cheekbones with

forefinger held in stasis, picture

the greeting we would have had,

your kiss freely given, your hair

as it brushed my cheeks, crushed

clover smell of your neck.

If only I had carried on, met

you there, been assured of our love.

How long did you wait.

Crow watched.

Sensed desperation turn                    

to despair. Did his cry drown            

out the approaching train                  

before I jumped.

#darkpoetsclub