Walking the Drove Road

Crow flies to a tree.
She had been hunting.
She perches beside the Drove Road,
the Crow Road, 
the Herepath.
Crow watches in the eye of a dead animal,
scolds a warning.
Mud grips.
The track sucks us to a standstill
Its banks imprisoning us.
Crow watches, other eye 
fixed on Roman soldiers.
Sinister dexter, sinister dexter, sinister…
Where is the battle?
There will be bodies.

Such is the craftiness of crows.

Crow and crow flap in a tree.
They have been haunting
the bank for mice beside the Drove Road,
the Crow Road, 
the Herepath.
Crow chuckles.
We struggle to climb out of the track.
Branches block the sun, 
shadows barring our way.
The Morrigan appears hunched in a tree trunk.

More crow magic.

Crow cracks up.
Chortles as we slip back.
The crowscape shifts on the Drove Road,
the Crow Road
the Herepath.
Cattle shove and jostle towards Triscombe
They are driven by slaps. 
The beasts moan. Crow scolds then shrieks –
A calf ails, will it die?
There will be flesh, sweet as the gibbeted one.

Such is the second sight of crows.

Crow and crow and crow flaunt above us.
They hint more mischief of Corvidmancy
searching for the dead beside the Drove Road,
the Crow Road, 
the Herepath.
Horses! We tread in their hoofprints.
Wind gallops in the branches;
This is the warning:
Yeth hounds are running.
Crow conjures the Wild Hunt.
There will be a murder!
Where is the murder?

Such is the storytelling of crows.