‘He lives eternally who lives in the present’ Tractatus 6.4311
Let this be eternal life:
light ebbing, my dinghy drifting
on watershine, dead centre
of cloud and cloud-reflection —
high vapour, mind’s illusion.
And for music, Baron Corvo,
my half tame forest raven
with his bad leg unretracted
beating for home, lamenting
or, possibly, rejoicing
that he saw the world at all.
Space of a crow-call, enclosing
the self and all it remembers.
Heart-beat, wing-beat, a moment.
My line jerks taut. The cod
are biting. This too is eternal;
the death of cod at twilight.
And this: food on my table
keeping a tang of the ocean.
So many, in raven darkness.
Why give death fancy names?
Corvo, where have you settled
your crippled leg for the night?
