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Thick wave-lips lick the shore
then it reaches back to its core;
deep into sea where it lies
at the heart of tranquil waters.
I home my boat aand hear the screech
from the corrugated tin-roof besides the
beach;
ever cautious of freak sounds, I see
the crow had returned to where I live.
It's the same crow, my friend,
the old crank, who helps me out
with discarded bread and dead rats
under the wooden planks.
I see him croaking his head off
must have caught a lamb's hoof,
or half a ear, a feast, I suppose.
But then the screech stops -
he flies away, a dead rat plops.
So he left and found a new patch,
I thought, peaceful, though lonely.
Crows are always looking for company,
a fresh Pasteur for a new catch.
Thought I'd lost him, regretted at times,
after all, he did a clearing job for me.
Free souls would wander round,
though he'd never return to my grounds.
I can remember the time
when children had harassed him
threw stones to stop him meddling
He returned an old fellow
to the only place he knows
its always the same
with old fellows, the crow.
Soumyen Maitra is the founder-editor-builder of this site.
Can be found on open floor performing poetry at
Liverpool Everyman Theatres
some evenings.
A PERSONAL SELECTION FROM
HIS OWN WRITINGS
- Soumyen Maitra
Tight-knit stockings
iron the guts out of petite legs.
They loiter street corners.
It is late.
Heading south along unnamed corridors
to numbered shacks
where black dresses and scarce tops contrast.
I'd have liked the best of both worlds.
But stumbled at the scene
Against a hot striped Rover,
buttoned suits and holstered cosh.
Not my cup of tea, I thought.
Catwalks are new to me,
downtown smiles unnerve me -
drowns appetite for love.
Preferring lumpy thighs,
I remain homebound,
arguing morality, as key to civilisation.