On Tower Green,
Sleek ravens strut:
Their wings are clipped.
Crow is free to soar
His space, broad and high.
Through plumes of incense,
Sooty candle smoke.
Far below, tourists
Trample Chaucer's grave.
Crow feels the loss:
The north wind's absence
The missing green-brown
Palette of the moors,
But takes heart that
Something survives.
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