Ayr Academy: Aaron Dick



The Crow

There it was, hanging limp and lifeless
From a post in the farmer’s field.
It’s feathers, tainted a crimson red,
It’s beak crusted with blood.
It’s eyes, dark and black, staring at me, seeing yet unseeing.

There was a foul stench.
I could only imagine it had been there
For a few days, but decaying already.
Flies buzzed about lazily
Oblivious to anything but the crow.
The smell left a terrible taste
In the back of my throat.

This crow, one of identical millions
Seemed somehow significant.
It intrigued me, this dead
And ordinary crow.
I felt pity that it had been left
In such a sad and sorrowful way
And that this crow should be left to such a fate.

by Aaron Dick