My grandfather once shot a crow for the simple
crime of stealing peas – he hung the body
from the canes as a warning to the others.

Already dressed in mourning black, they
flocked, festooning barn and house like
bunting on a Día de Muertos parade.

Their harsh cries told of the hardness
of their lives, where a few sweet, green
peas were a little treat to be enjoyed.

Death seemed too big a price to pay,
but we, too, were poor, and could not
afford to share with the crows.

I apologised, as little girls will, for the sins
of their elders, but their black eyes,
which neither accused nor forgave,
promised they would never forget.

I have changed since that day, grown old,
grown wrinkled. The peas, the garden,
thieving crow, grandfather, all long buried.

Yet, were I never again to cut my hair, let
it grow and wrap the whole matted tangle
around my face, the crows would know me.

Were time to run its course until our galaxy
collided with another and lost its identity,
somewhere, the crows would remember.

–

Alex Grehy’s (she/her) ambition is to write relatable pieces that engage the reader’s emotions and helps them to make sense of the world around them. Her poetry has been published in a range of anthologies and ezines worldwide including Gnashing Teeth, Red Penguin and via a global network of public story dispensers managed by French publisher Short Edition. Alex grew up in rural Wales where her love of nature was born. In the peace of the countryside, she became a quiet observer of the world, her insights expressed today in vivid prose and thought-provoking poetry.