An Elegy for George Brokenbeak

Widow crow keens, circling above–

Her husband's body down deep below.

For seven years the two bred love–

Now, a dirge for the broken break crow.

Just beneath a silvery flagstone,

Nested within a small, cedar box,

Lies George Brokenbeak’s inky form–

His spirit gone on to fly with Nox.

Plumes of purple dipped in soot

And beak tucked under breathless breast,

‘cross the River Styx glides rook

Where half a murder goes to rest.