raven haven

         

It seems as  if my last post was a self fulfilling prophecy. Having gone on about ravens and writing desks look what turned up a few days later.

This young raven had apparently come out of its nest a tadge too early and became caught up in the storms. She was found soaked to the skin, cold and nearly dying. Once warmed up and fed she was given to me to continue her recovery.

 

She is completely charming - already the size of a rook and still considered a baby. Eventually I'll move her into my shade tunnel where she can learn to fly and then I must take advice into what happens next. Apparently ravens who are used to humans do not fare well in the wild. If she's a female she has more chance but unless we do a DNA testing I don't know. I've decided she is a female and although I don't usually name the rescue birds (apart from Mrs Magpie) I am tentatively calling her Nimue - who was Merlin's daughter and muse. Also known as the Lady of the Lake -  there is something magical about her.

I know about Nimue because many moons ago I played her in an eight hour production of Morte D'Arthur at the Lyric. Originally trained as a mime the spoken word was relatively new to me and on the first day of rehearsals I managed to completely embarrass myself.  I had to stand up on top of a make shift tower and proclaim to the director, the cast and the crew that "It was not Sir Patrice who empoisoned the apple - it was Sir Pinel!"

All eyes were on me as I nervously and loudly declared that it was not Sir Patrice who empoisoned the apple but - and then out of my mouth I shouted it was Sir PENIS!

There was a shocked silence.

Another attempt at incubating black Indian runner ducks  - another fifteen days to go.

Pocket is still quizzing me on not writing at the moment. Writing is easy he says all you have to do is cross out the wrong words. Mark Twain said that I told him but he tucked himself up on the stair in order I suspect to trip me up. How vain it is to sit down and write when you have not stood up to live he murmurs on. Henry Thoreau I said and actually I'm not sitting down to write. He shuts his eyes. don't tell me the moon is shining. show me the glint of light on broken glass. Anton Chekov penned those words I announce. Have you actually read any of my books? I ask. I have he replied and you shouldn't be writing in the voice of a cat or a dog when you are not a cat or a dog. You'll be cancelled.

Nancy has become Mrs Rochester in the attic. I think she has alzheimers too as she wanders around wailing loudly. She eats well and likes a cuddle and is also very very old. She likes to stay upstairs and proclaim.

Rocket said he'd given me lots of ideas to write about and I should pen another The Dog, Ray. You can call it the Dog, Rocket he tells me and do not, please write The Raven, Nimue. I will bear it in mind.

oh the sweet peas this year are magnificent

A poem I wrote a while ago but it's the only one with ravens in it so I put it here.

The Rapture

(the transporting of believers to heaven at the second coming of Christ)

An angel stood high on a ladder by the street corner.

He looked perplexed, re-arranging his wings

as if trying to keep warm.

He carried a placard.

"The end of the world is nigh"

it read

On Tuesday he told anyone who asked.

On Tuesday the end of the world did not come.

there was no interplay of complex natural forces.

No Satanic army, tsunami or Armageddon

only a rain filled sky and a wind -

a vortex, that blew stronger than usual

from the East.

And yet it was the end for the badger

who lay, his face squashed into a grin

by the side of the road.

The end for the hummingbird hawkmoth

blown into the screen of an oncoming car.

For the man on the rails at Godalming

causing trains to be subject to delay.

When the Heavens turned black

it was merely the beating wings

of ravens

who flew overhead.

Waiting for the souls of the righteous.

the Raptors - not the Rapture.