They say that bad luck comes in threes
and there were three of you
when I got home. Three rooks waiting
in the house, your mess an omen
like we were living in a du Maurier story.
The first of you, I found, splayed out on the floor
wings stretched out, black eyes glassy – staring
you were light to lift, easy to remove
and I thought my job done.
The second was still breathing, sitting perched
in the window, staring out at the great beyond.
you didn’t move or flap as I approached
and when you were gone,
I thought that we were done.
The last was harder to find. Just a wing
poking out from under a shelf
hidden in the shadows and I don’t know
how you got stuck down behind the case
your body wedged awkwardly
so that we might not have seen you at all.
Even after you’d gone
I sensed you still, lingering, watching, your eyes
fixed on me, following as I went on living.