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Kenneth Slessor - Crow Country
Work rating: Low

GUTTED of station, noise alone, 
 The crow`s voice trembles down the sky 
 As if this nitrous flange of stone 
 Wept suddenly with such a cry; 
 As if the rock found lips to sigh, 
 The riven earth a mouth to moan; 
 But we that hear them, stumbling by, 
 Confuse their torments with our own. 
 Over the huge abraded rind, 
 Crow-countries graped with dung, we go, 
 Past gullies that no longer flow 
 And wells that nobody can find, 
 Lashed by the screaming of the crow, 
 Stabbed by the needles of the mind.
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