Crow's Nerve Fails

Ted Hughes

Crow, feeling his brain slip,
Finds his every feather the fossil of a murder.

Who murdered all these?
These living dead, that root in his nerves and his blood
Till he is visibly black?

How can he fly from his feathers?
And why have they homed on him?

Is he the archive of their accusations?
Or their ghostly purpose, their pining vengeance?
Or their unforgiven prisoner?

He cannot be forgiven.

His prison is the earth. Clothed in his conviction,
Trying to remember his crimes

Heavily he flies. 

Next 10 Poems

• Ted Hughes : Earth-moon
• Ted Hughes : Examination At The Womb-door
• Ted Hughes : Full Moon And Little Frieda
• Ted Hughes : Hawk Roosting
• Ted Hughes : How To Paint A Water Lily
• Ted Hughes : Lineage
• Ted Hughes : Lovesong
• Ted Hughes : Old Age Gets Up
• Ted Hughes : September
• Ted Hughes : The Harvest Moon

Previous 10 Poems

• Ted Hughes : Crow's Fall
• Ted Hughes : Bride And Groom Lie Hidden For Three Days
• Ted Hughes : A Woman Unconscious
• Alfred Edward Housman : You Smile Upon Your Friend To-day
• Alfred Edward Housman : With Rue My Heart Is Laden
• Alfred Edward Housman : White In The Moon The Long Road Lies
• Alfred Edward Housman : When The Lad For Longing Sighs
• Alfred Edward Housman : When Smoke Stood Up From Ludlow
• Alfred Edward Housman : When I Watch The Living Meet
• Alfred Edward Housman : When I Was One-and-twenty