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as i walked, the night torrid,
the images of two great Ravens came to me.
one flew silently overhead,
an endless wandering Thought.
with every change of mind he swerved
and looped and glided
on the wind of Memory's flapping wings
as he took his place upon my shoulder.
(Memory, they say, is dearest to Odin,
for he does not wander, squawking madly,
far beyond reach or thought of return,
as Thought does, with a grim solemnity
taught to him by the scars left by hard Memory's claws.)
yet i in longing stared above
at Thought, arcing freely,
so separate in me from the talons of cold recollection
tearing wounds in my shoulder and my back.
behind me i left in the soil
the echoes of my feet,
stained with the drops of a miserable past
that only Thought and Memory,
could hide in forgetful leaves.
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