the door was locked & the floor was swept
& the artist sighed on her pillow as she slept
& a mouse watched closely as the shadows crept
& a woodlouse hurried from the dusty ledge
as down from the casement two tiny figures stepped
the old woman & the crow
the old woman & the crow

there were daisies in her hair & ink on her sleeves
on her shoulder a satchel of feathers and reeds
& she set them on the table according to need
as the crow flapped up by her side to see
the delicate lines she carefully conceived
the old woman & the crow
the old woman & the crow

& the wind blew wild and the moon bowed low
& the dark waters sang in the deeps below
& no shade did she miss and no detail forego
as the night fell still & the world turned slow
till all was done and she readied to go
the old woman & the crow
the old woman & the crow

she smiled & held a hand to the side
& the crow dipped low with its black wings wide
& she leapt on its back & waved her goodbye
to the mouse peeking out from its hole close-by
the visitors caught in the prism of its eye
the old woman & the crow
the old woman & the crow

& the sun slid up, & the candle burned low
& the artist rose grumblingly aching and slow
& came downstairs to her studio
& stopped when she saw the strange tableau
a daisy on a picture, signed below
the old woman & the crow
the old woman & the crow

(dedicated to Bev Cooke)