The Ancient Raven - Poetry

The Ancient Raven

Stern and proud, the ancient raven sits,
Perched upon a cedar’s fine fingertips.
As the sun bent down to kiss the land’s green lips,
So sat the tarred black raven, thus did he sit.

From the west, blew a watery breeze,
That whispered of rain through the cedar’s leaves.
Rain, it did not, though the raven it would have pleased,
Who sat, ruffling his feathers against the watery breeze.

A joyful tune warbled in a mockingbird’s throat,
Whose little body trembled whilst he held one sweet note.
On that happy bird, so did the black raven dote,
As that sweet little song danced in the little bird’s throat.

Through the bright green blades, a tender flower shone.
A small buttercup, safe from the breeze that had blown.
Though the tall grand cedar, the raven did own,
He could not pass through the blades where the flower had shone.

Full of wishes, the raven began to plead and crow,
For rain to grace the yellow flower whom he did not know,
Or to bathe the little bird, whose song had pleased him so.
So wished the ancient raven and thus did he crow.