I hold ships steady, headlines ready, and keep your thoughts from drifting away. One sinks deep, one speaks the news, one keeps you grounded when you lose.

Find me at your core, Or through which an African or Indian beast would snore, Or in which your clothing to store, Or from which a mighty oak's branches can soar. If you add eight to me I sound awfully short. What am I ?

Where corvids come to to drink al'caw'hol.

I have a mouth but never speak A neck that bends without bones I dive where hunger leads the way Yet drink without a thirst of my own I hold world in shallow curves Give comfort, medicine and heat Empty I wait fulfilled I serve I am that never eats

I wear many coats though I’m not for the cold, I make strong folks cry, though I’m timid and old. Chop me to bits, I’ll still flavour your bowl