Black crow and pot

Darkness consumed the captured Sun, 
besotted Moon drenched in crimson blood .
A sailor’s delight, not so tonight,
Uriel’s birdcage has no guiding light.

High upon Wobble Lighthouse the beacon  cage ceased to glow,
Uriel’s wings broken, the keeper of the light, dead in the snow below.
The clever crow saw him fall, placed a gold coin in his mouth like generations before.
A nesting crow must pay what’s due,
mouldy cheese is worth a doubloon or two.

Long ago before the golden age of oak and sail,
a Spanish Armada, destined to fail,tacked through treacherous Devilhand Reef.
Six harpoon fingernails, six barnacle
knuckles, six fingers of gnarly rock
took hold of the brave, the foolish,the weak.
All but twenty three were lost at sea, each with black cat, Protestant Wind set them free.
Bitter was the winter chill, soldiers broken of their will,
laid to rest on Black Crow Hill.
 
Gather they do,sea dogs,treasure hunters at Flattery Inn,
drunk on Holy Ghost Rum and lashings of Evil Eyed Gin.
Where be the long lost pieces of eight, no one knows, except grounded spirits and yes that clever crow and the wing mate.
Superstition runs rampant at Flattery Inn,
to touch a feather or paw on Tuesday would be a deadly sin.
Morals fear their Omens of Death,but mostly because, like the crow and the cat...they’re ominously black.

A murder of crows learned the very human ritual display,
bury your dead, hide tiny shiny things far far away.
Why?...because the Silent Vultures circle the uncultivated cemetery plot,
and a kettle chides blackness,
 just like a black crow looks into 
...the polished copper pot.
by Abre.