When Crow was white he decided the sun was too white.
He decided it glared much too whitely.
He decided to attack it and defeat it.
And I thought, what when he is dead? Is it better to be alive, walking on a railway track, or to be a dead poet, who once felt life intensely but can no longer experience anything?
Then I got back to the car, and it was getting dark. I switched on the radio, and the newsreader said that Ted Hughes had died.