Before the days of gods who looked like men,
there reigned an older race, the ravens
and their archangels, the crows and jays,
who walked on two feet and roosted in trees.

They were feathered all in shiny black
for tending to the dead, cleaning the bones
until they shone white in the dreamtime light
that filled the newly glacier-swept valleys.

They still rule the dull winter skies when man
and field mouse huddle in earthen dens and
frogs and fish sleep beneath the pond ice
like the ice sheets upon the land of old.


About Ray Sharp

Father, poet, triathlete, local public health planner
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2 Responses to Undertakers

  1. Alex H. says:

    Really like this poem. Such amazing imagery.

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