Three ravens, or in their absence,

crows, any black bird, signal a death.

These three on the wall, in the snow,

in the lane – a teenager or widow

they have enfolded as their own.

Rooks know loneliness and grief,

know it in their purple gowns,

their raised skin crowns. What of

the one I watched die? Its fellows paced,

crawed, nursemaids or executioners

I couldn't tell. Before we came here

I flew over these woods and fields

like a pigeon homing, dreamt also

of houses back to back in rows,

rain-black streets and cobbled roads,

of trees an ingrained seam.

Hillside a water-fall, sky a wedge

of black distance. On the hill a church

with two black eyes guarding

its underground and earthly charges.

An eagle means war – rare here

in the West Riding of Yorkshire –

unless you count the Civil War dead

seen marching down Market Street,

that corner of the woodswe'll not now go.

What of the peregrine on our fence

that autumn, its chick in the fir tree

at the bottom of the garden?

What of the collared dove the dog

pulled from a rabbit hole to flap,

flightless with shock across the field,

what of the kestrel? There, there it is –

wind-skirted redback, windrider,

fieldcopter dizzying off the line.

The magpie is a question. Each morning

a question that never gets answered.