The tattooed Crow

and I go way back,

longer than almost anybody I remember,

save for immediate family

and a girl I loved named Jo.

Tattooed Crow, tattooed crow,

once a skinny Birmingham boy

to whom the words of cars,

machines, 50s beat,

and Elvis were the product

of a life I could not imagine,

not giving a damn about how

an engine worked or the days

of music long since past,

or of Rugby, a game that wasn’t

mine to enjoy,

but we got along, always did,

there was an outcast of the chemistry

that fizzed

and we always had each other’s backs

in the school yard and in the class, despite me

being a young hippy in training,

long hair at eight and the Crow,

dreaming of muscular pursuits

of the engine in waiting to purr.

Different backgrounds, different loves,

always in the same class till senior school

separated us but still our backs

were covered; I love that Crow

like a brother, many of these I have

but not as many as the sisters

we both adored…

…but Crow was always the one

to whom they would flock,

to whom the majestic bird in flight

would always be the appeal.

Thank you old crow, not even heart

attacks could take you away,

not illness and infirmity

in which you scoff

could beat you,

to you I remember everything

and thank you for it all.

For Paul Morris.

Ian D. Hall 2016