Jay
A crow in fancy dress
tricked out in pink and russet
with blue and black and white accessories
lurks in a tree, managing not to squawk
his confession: 'I am not a nice bird.'
Crane
On guard and at rest at the same time,
the right claw planted in the earth, a rock
in its left that falls if it sleeps. A stone
in its bill to keep it from singing its dreams.
The wherewithal of a crane, its own sentry,
pinning the land to the land with its foot.
A crane, lifting the lid of the town, pulling the plug.
The city centre swinging from a crane's hook.
"Poetry is a dame with a huge pedigree, and every word comes practically barnacled with allusions and associations."
The illustrations are linked to etymological excavations, and suggest the play between the words poets use and the meanings buried in their forgotten roots and histories.
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